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 The Works of Leonard Merrick 
 
 THE MAN WHO 
 UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES
 
 The Works of 
 
 LEONARD MERRICK 
 
 CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH. With 
 an Introduction by Sib J. M. Bakbis. 
 
 WHEN LOVE FLIES OUT O' THE WINDOW. 
 
 With an Introduction by Sib William Robebtv 
 
 BON NiCOLL. 
 
 THE QUAINT COMPANIONS. With an Intro- 
 duction by H. G. Wells. 
 
 THE POSITION OF PEGGY HARPER. With 
 
 an Introduction by Sib Abthub Pineeo. 
 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN and 
 
 other Stories. With an Introduction by W. J. 
 
 Locke. 
 THE WORLDLINGS. With an Introduction by 
 
 Neil Muneo. 
 THE ACTOR-MANAGER. With an Introduction 
 
 by W. D. HowELLS. 
 CYNTHIA. With an Introduction by Maubicb 
 
 Hewlett. 
 ONE MAN'S VIEW. With an Introduction by 
 
 Gbanvillb Baekee. 
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS GOOD. With an Intro- 
 duction by J. K. Peothbbo. 
 
 A CHAIR ON THE BOULEVARD. With an 
 Introduction by A. Neil Lyons. 
 
 THE HOUSE OF LYNCH. With an Introduc- 
 tion by G. K. Chestebton. 
 
 WHILE PARIS LAUGHED: Being Pbanks and 
 
 Passions of the Poet Tbicotbin. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY
 
 THE MAN WHO 
 UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 ¥ 
 
 By LEONARD MERRICK 
 
 ¥ 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY 
 W. J. LOCKE 
 
 NEW YORK 
 E P. DUTTON AND COMPANY 
 
 681 FIFTH AVENUE
 
 COPTEIGHT, 1911, 
 
 BY MITCHELL KENNERLET 
 
 COPTHIGHT, 1919, 
 
 BY E. P. BUTTON & COMPANY 
 
 All Rights Reserved 
 
 The First American Definitive Edition, with Introduction by 
 
 W. J. Locke, limited to 1550 copies 
 
 (of which only 1500 were for sale) 
 
 Published September, 1919 
 
 Second American Edition, October, 1919 
 
 Third " " October, 1919 
 
 Printed in the United States of America
 
 PR 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 I PA OB 
 
 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 1 
 
 II 
 A VERY GOOD THING FOR THE GIRL 18 
 
 III 
 THE WOMAN WHO WISHED TO DIE 35 
 
 IV 
 FRANKENSTEIN II 50 
 
 V 
 THE TALE THAT WOULDN't DO 68 
 
 VI 
 THE LAURELS AND THE LADY 81 
 
 VII 
 THE CHILD IN THE GARDEN 160 
 
 VIII 
 A LETTER TO THE DUCHESS ^ . 180 
 
 IX 
 THE PRINCE IN THE FAIRY TALE 200 
 
 X 
 
 WITH INTENT TO DEFRAUD 224 
 
 V
 
 \i CONTEXTS 
 
 DEAD VIOLETS ^9 
 
 xn 
 
 THE FATOnUTE PLOT 259 
 
 xm 
 
 TIME, THE HUMORIST 277 
 
 THE BACK OF BOHEMIA 293 
 
 XV 
 THE LADT OF LTOXs' 313 
 
 XVI 
 THE THTRD M 326 
 
 xvn 
 
 THE bishop's COMEDY 344 
 
 XVIII 
 A REVERIE 364 
 
 XTX 
 THE RECONCILIATION 368 
 
 XX 
 THE CALL FROM THE PAST ........ 383
 
 INTRODUCTION^ 
 
 One of our most delightful novelists has re- 
 cently written a preface to a collection of his 
 short stories in which he apologises for disinter- 
 ring them from magazines and resuscitating them 
 in book form. I think he ought not to have done 
 it. If a preface were needed, it should have been 
 written rather as an appeal, than as a warning. 
 It should have been in the nature of a bugle- 
 blast. It should have said, in effect : "Here, my 
 faithful and gentle readers who, owing to the 
 limitations of time and space and the worries of 
 the world, have missed much of my best and most 
 cherished work — here is an opportunity of an 
 unexpected feast." I confess that such an ap- 
 peal would not have been modest — and the au- 
 thor in question is the most modest of our con- 
 fraternity — but the assertion would have been 
 true. Xow, with the agreeable task before me of 
 writing a preface to another man's collection, I 
 am not bound by any such sense of modesty, and 
 I should like to make clear once more certain 
 issues which my friend above referred to has, to 
 a certain extent, confused. 
 
 ivii
 
 rsTsoDucnox 
 
 In -he ±r5t place, it must be understood that 
 the noTci and the short stonr are two oitirelv 
 difT^ :: artistic €3^resaoiis. as different as the 
 grr_: _-T lilting and the miniatare. And as 
 rarely as th r :..: mpHshed landscape-painter and 
 Tj r :. ; ; : : . : Tii^tnrist are incarnate in one 
 
 _ . .7 _zir : /ddnal so raieh- sffe the ac- 
 ::^tL;L ri n TrL,: :. 1 : e acoGOipli^^ed slicri 
 story -writer thus L. ;i::-_:e. The nost fervait 
 1- __reTs of 31r. H _ ^7 : 1 HipTmg, among whom 
 T :^^ T : _ 5 to crmr. :_iyself , wiH not flf^im far 
 —^ z r.f -.1 : izj- : ; >r?=ii:g' -he incalcnlahle and 
 inirdi:: -t Ttt- r.:. ::_:_, :_e magical genius 
 oi tzLzzt-z.z. ~L : - T : :r i in all his work 
 — evQi in 7" r .: - '-.1 Leggar^ the per- 
 
 fecrti^n of si--t„ t .: ::^_ i_r flawless technique of 
 P:<2f 1 T^Tf ^ r ' -^'" "^L-fe'g Handicap. 
 In the sizie t^t^t Tre ttv^^ : : i_;^ re Guy de 
 M: t"s grt itnrss by L'r^ Vic or 3/wrf 
 
 O" 1 ^Li^L :he late Henry Harl^nd is 
 
 "' ^ : ^r_ ^^Ti by that study in sunshiiie, Tiie Car- 
 ~ - r^ his : : - i :~ers turn to the in- 
 11-.:/ '.' ' -'z'.z-. :. G'-ey B'jxei 211^ Come- 
 
 C inTers-eiT. :_ir of the greatest novelists have 
 but litrlr Tiiue as storr writers. The so- 
 
 ::.' ' :: :: Diikeiis — T'^e Crichet on 
 
 z\c Hi-- Z' : C i. A Cfiri^mag Carol —
 
 IXTRODUCTION ix 
 
 are between thirty and forty thousand words in 
 length. Among Thackeray's many sketches may 
 be found a few which we understand as short sto- 
 ries, but theT do not rank with Hev.ru E»mond 
 and TJie Xezccomeg. 
 
 The essential novelist accustomed to his broad 
 canvas, to the multiplicity of human destinies 
 with which he is concerned and their inter-rela- 
 ticHi, to his varied backgrounds, to the free space 
 which his art allows him both for minute analysis 
 of character and for his own philosophical re- 
 flections on life, is apt to find himself absurdly 
 cramped wi thin the narrow confines of the short 
 story. His short stories have a way of becoming 
 ccmdensed novels. Thev contain more stuff than 
 they ought to hold, at a sacrifice of balance, di- 
 rectness and clearness of exposition, Xow, with- 
 out dogmatising in the conventional fashion, or 
 indeed in any fashion, over what a short story 
 ought or ought not to be, or asserting definite 
 laws of technique, I think it is obvious that if a 
 story told in ten thousand words would have been 
 a better, clearer, more fuHy developed story told 
 in a hundred thousand, it is not a perfectly told 
 story. For. though there is a modem tendency 
 to revolt against an older school of criticism 
 which set technique over subject, and to scoff at 
 form, yet we cannot get away from the fact that
 
 X INTRODUCTION 
 
 the told story, whether long or short, is a work 
 of art, and is subject to the eternal canons where- 
 by every art is governed. No matter what a man 
 has to say, if he does not strive to express it per- 
 fectly, he is offending. The "condensed novel," 
 being imperfect, is an offence. 
 
 On the other hand, the essential short story 
 writer engaged upon a novel, is apt to be dis- 
 mayed by the vastness of the canvas he has to 
 cover. His habit of mind — minute, delicate and 
 swift — wars against a conception of the archi- 
 tectonics of a novel. In consequence, his novel 
 may appear thin, episodical and laboured, with 
 scenes spun out beyond their value, thus missing 
 their dramatic effect and spoiling the balance of 
 the work. If, therefore, a story of a hundred 
 thousand words could have been told more effec- 
 tively in ten thousand, it is, like the "condensed 
 novel," not a perfectly told story. 
 
 Briefly, the tendency of the essential novelist 
 in writing a short story is to make literary con- 
 densed milk, while that of the essential short 
 story wi'iter working in the medium of a novel 
 is to make milk and water. 
 
 Occasionally, of course, among the great writ- 
 ers of fiction we meet with the combination of the 
 two faculties. Ealzac the short story writer is as 
 great as Balzac the novelist. The Contes Dro-
 
 INTRODUCTION xi 
 
 latiques alone would have brought him fame. 
 Stevenson was master of both crafts. Who shall 
 say whether The Sire de MaUtroifs Door or 
 The Ebb Tide is the more perfect work of art? 
 Now among contemporary writers, Mr. Leon- 
 ard ]\Ierrick is eminently one who, like Balzac 
 and Stevenson, is gifted with the double faculty. 
 His reputation as a novelist rests on a sure foun- 
 dation, and his novels in this edition of his works 
 will be dealt with by other hands. But, owing 
 to the fact of the novel being in the commercial 
 world "more important" than the short story, his 
 claim to the distinct reputation of a short story 
 writer has more or less been overlooked. Again, 
 it is popularly supposed that a writer of fiction 
 regards the short story as either a relaxation 
 from more arduous toil or as a means of adding 
 & few extra pounds to his income. In his acqui- 
 escence in this disastrous superstition lies my 
 quarrel with my distinguished preface-writing 
 friend. Now, although I do not say that we are 
 all such high-minded folk that none of us has 
 ever stooped to "i^ot-boiling," yet I assert that 
 every conscientious artist approaches a short 
 story with the same earnestness as he does a nov- 
 el. Further, that in proportion to its length he 
 devotes to it more concentration, more loving 
 and scrupulous care. There are days during the
 
 xii INTRODUCTION 
 
 writing of a novel when that combination of 
 fierce desire to work and sense of power which 
 one loosely talks about as "inspiration," is at ebb, 
 and others when it is at flow. Homer nods some- 
 times. No man can bestow equal essence of him- 
 self on every page of a long novel. But a short 
 story is generally written at full-tide. By its na- 
 ture it can be finished before the impulse is over. 
 There is time to weigh every word of it, attend 
 to the rhythm of every sentence, adjust the del- 
 icate balance of the various parts, and there is 
 the thrilling consciousness of unity. Instead of 
 the climax being months off, there it is at hand to 
 be reached in a few glad hours. So, far from 
 being an unconsidered trifle, the short story is a 
 work of intense consideration, and as far as our 
 poor words can matter, of profound importance. 
 It may be said that anything in the nature of 
 a plea for the short story as a work of art is hope- 
 lessly belated — I am quite aware that the wise 
 and gifted made it long ago, and I remember 
 the preaching of the apostles of the early 'nine- 
 ties — but its repetition is none the less useful. 
 Every item in the welter of short stories with 
 which the innumerable magazines both here and 
 in America flood the reading public is not a mas- 
 terpiece. Every item is not perfect work. Many 
 are exceedingly bad — bad in conception, style
 
 INTRODUCTION xiii 
 
 and form. There is always the danger of the 
 good being hidden, of bad and good being con- 
 fused together in the public mind, and of the 
 term "magazine story" becoming one of con- 
 temptuous and unthinking reproach, as was the 
 term "yellow-back" a generation ago. Accord- 
 ingly it is well that now and again a word should 
 be said in deprecation of an attitude which a tired 
 and fiction-worn world is liable to adopt; and it 
 is well to remind it that in the aforesaid welter 
 there are many beautiful works of art, and to 
 beseech it to exercise discrimination. 
 
 The writer of an introduction to the work of a 
 literary comrade labours under certain difficul- 
 ties. He ought not to usurp the functions of the 
 critic into whose hands the volume, when pub- 
 lished, will come, and he is anxious, for the sake 
 of prudence, not to use the language of hyper- 
 bole, though he has it in his heart to do so. But, 
 at least, I can claim for these short stories of Mr. 
 Leonard IMerrick, that each, by its perfection of 
 form and the sincerity of its making, takes rank 
 as a work of art. In none is there a word too 
 little or a word too much. Everywhere one sees 
 evidence of the pain through which the soul of 
 the artist has passed on its way to the joy of cre- 
 ation. Everywhere is seen the firmness of out- 
 line which only comes by conviction of truth, and
 
 xiv INTRODUCTION 
 
 the light and shade which is only attained by a 
 man who loves his craft. 
 
 The field covered by Mr. Merrick in this col- 
 lection is one which he has made peculiarly his 
 own. Mainly it is the world of the artist, the 
 poet, the journalist, in the years when hopes are 
 high and funds are low, when the soul is full and 
 the stomach empty. It is neither the Bohemia 
 of yesterday's romance nor the Bohemia of 
 drunken degradation, but the sober, clean-living, 
 struggling Bohemia of to-day. It is a sedate, 
 hard-up world of omnibuses, lodgings, second- 
 rate tea shops and restaurants. Yet he does not 
 belong to the static school who set do^\Ti the mere 
 greyness of their conditions. He is a poet, mak- 
 ing— 
 
 "The violet of a legend blow 
 Among the chops and steaks," 
 
 as in The Lady of Lyons\ To Rosie McLeod, 
 living "up ninety-eight stairs of a dingy house in 
 a dilapidated court" in Montparnasse, comes the 
 prince in the Fairy Tale. There is true poetry 
 in The Laurels and the Lady with its amazing 
 end. And yet his method is simple, direct, 
 romantic. He writes of things as they really are, 
 but his vision pierces to their significance. He 
 can be relentless in his presentation of a poig- 
 nant situation, as in A Very Good Thing for the
 
 INTRODUCTION xv 
 
 Girl, a realist of the realists if you like ; but here, 
 as everywhere in his work, are profound pity, 
 tenderness and sympathetic knowledge of the hu- 
 man heart. He writes not only of things seen, 
 but of things felt. Whatever qualities his work 
 may have, it has the great quahty essential to aU 
 artistic endeavour — sincerity. 
 
 WiLLiAi^i J. Locke.
 
 THE MAN WHO 
 UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES
 
 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD 
 WOMEN 
 
 "Our bitterest remorse is not for our sins, but for our 
 stupidities." — Excerpt from Wendover's new novel. 
 
 Nothing had delighted Wendover so much 
 when his first book appeared as some reviewer's 
 reference to "the author's knowledge of women." 
 He was then six or seven and twenty, and the 
 compliment uplifted him the more because he had 
 long regretted violently that he knew even less 
 of women than do most young men. The thought 
 of women fascinated him. He yearned to capti- 
 vate them, to pass lightly from one love-affair 
 to another, to have the right to call himself 
 "blase." Alas! a few dances in the small provin- 
 cial town that he had left when he was eighteen 
 comprised nearly all his sentimental experiences; 
 during his years of struggle in London he had 
 been so abominably hard up that lodging-house 
 keepers and barmaids were almost the only wom- 
 en he addressed, and as his beverage was "a glass 
 of bitter," the barmaids had been strictly com- 
 mercial. 
 
 To be told that he understood women enrap- 
 
 1
 
 2 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 tured him. "Instinct!" he said to himself. "Xow 
 and then a man is born who knows the feminine 
 mind intuitively." And in his next book there 
 was an abundance of his fanciful psychology. 
 Denied companionship with women, he revelled 
 in writing about them, and drew from the pages 
 in which he posed as their delineator something 
 of the exultation that he would have derived from 
 being their lover. There were even pages after 
 which he felt sated with conquest. At these times 
 nothing accorded with his mood so well as to pa- 
 rade the Park and pretend to himself that the 
 sight of the most attractive of the women bored 
 him. 
 
 But as loneliness really cried within him pa- 
 thetically, he had an adventure, culminating in 
 marriage, with a shop assistant who glanced at 
 him one evening in Oxford Street. After mar'^ 
 riage they found as little of an agreeable nature 
 to say to each other as might have been expected, 
 so a couple of j^ears later they separated, and the 
 ex-shop hand went to reside with a widowed sis- 
 ter, who "made up ladies' own materials" at 
 Crouch End. 
 
 Gradually he came to be accepted at his own 
 valuation, to be pronounced one of the few gifted 
 men from whom the feminine soul held no se- 
 crets. Then when he was close on forty, a novel
 
 THE IVIAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 3 
 
 that he produced hit the popular taste, and he 
 began to make a very respectable income. 
 
 Now, for the first time, he had opportunities 
 for meeting the class of women that he had been 
 writing about, and he found, to his consternation, 
 that they failed to recognise him as an affinity 
 after all. They were very amiable, but, like the 
 farmer with the claret, he "never got any forrad- 
 er." He perceived that his profundities were 
 thought tedious, and that his attentions were 
 thought raw. It was a sickening admission for 
 an authority on women to have to make, but 
 when he tried to flirt he felt shy. 
 
 At last he decided that all the women whom he 
 knew were too frivolous to appeal to a man of 
 intellect, and that theii' company wearied him 
 
 unutterablv. 
 
 But, though he had reached middle-age, he 
 had never as yet been really in love. 
 
 In the autumn of his forty-second year — few 
 people judged him to be so much — he removed 
 to Paris. Some months afterwards, in the inter- 
 ests of a novel that he had begun, he deserted his 
 hotel in the rue d'Antin for a pension de famille 
 on the left bank. This establishment, which was 
 supported chiefly by English and American girls 
 studying art, supplied the "colour" that he need-
 
 4 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 ed for his earlier chapters; and it was here that 
 he made the acquaintance of Miss Searle. 
 
 Miss Searle was about six-and-twenty, bohe- 
 mian and ambitious beyond her talents. Such 
 pensions de famille abound in girls who are more 
 or less bohemian, and ambitious beyond their tal- 
 ents, but Rhoda Searle was noteworthy — her 
 face stirred the imagination, she had realised that 
 she would never paint, and the free-and-easy in- 
 tercourse of the Latin quarter had wholly un- 
 fitted her for the prim provincialism to which she 
 must return in England. 
 
 "My father was a parson," she told Wendover 
 once, as they smoked cigarettes together after 
 dinner. "I had hard work to convince him that 
 English art schools weren't the apex, but he gave 
 in at last and let me come here. It was Para- 
 dise! My home was in Beckenhampton. Do 
 you know it? It's one of the dreariest holes in 
 the kingdom. I used to go over to stay with him 
 twice a year. I was very fond of my father, but 
 I can't tell you how terrible those visits became 
 to me, how I had to suppress myself, and how 
 the drab women and stupid young men used to 
 stare at me — as if I were a strange animal, or 
 something improper; in places like Beckenhamp- 
 ton they say 'Paris' in the same kind of voice that 
 they say 'Hell.' I suppose I'm a bohemian by
 
 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 5 
 
 instinct, for even now that I know I should never 
 make an artist, my horror isn't so much the loss 
 of my hopes as the loss of my freedom, my — my 
 identity; I am never to be natural any more. 
 After I leave here I am to go on suppressing 
 myself till the day I die! Sometimes I shall be 
 able to shut myself up and howl — that's all I've 
 got to look forward to." 
 
 "What are you going to do?" asked Wendo- 
 ver, looking sympathetic, and thinking pleasur- 
 ably that he had found a good character to put 
 into his book. 
 
 "I am going back," she said, "a shining ex- 
 ample of the folly of being discontented with 
 district -visiting and Church bazaars! I go back 
 a failure for Beckenhampton to moralise over. 
 My old schoolmistress has asked me to stay with 
 her while I 'look round' — you see, I've spent all 
 my money, and I must find a situation. If the 
 Beckenhampton parents don't regard me as too 
 immoral, it is just possible she may employ me 
 in the school to 'teach drawing' — unless I try to 
 teach it. Then I suppose I shall be called a 'rev- 
 olutionary' and be dismissed." She contemplated 
 the shabby little salon thoughtfully, and lit 
 another cigarette. "From the Boul' Mich' to a 
 boarding school! It'll be a change. I wonder
 
 6 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 if it will be safe to smoke there if I keep my bed- 
 room window open wide?" 
 
 Yes, it would be as great a change as was con- 
 ceivable, and Khoda Searle was the most inter- 
 esting figure in the house to Wendover. She 
 was going to England in a month's time — there 
 was no reason why she should not go at once, save 
 that she had enough money to postpone the evil 
 day — and during this valedictory month, she and 
 he talked of their "friendship." In the tortuous 
 streets off the boulevard, she introduced him to 
 humble restaurants, where the dinners were 
 sometimes amazingly good at ridiculously low 
 prices. Together they made little excursions, 
 and pretended to scribble or sketch in the woods 
 — looking at each other, however, most of the 
 time ; and then at evening there was an inn to be 
 sought, and the moon would rise sooner than the 
 "friends"; and in the moonlight, when they re- 
 turned to Paris and the pension de famille, senti- 
 ment would constrain their tones. 
 
 It was all quite innocent, but to the last degree 
 unwise. The ex-shop assistant still throve decor- 
 ously at Crouch End on his allowance, and Wen- 
 dover should have seen that he was acting unfair- 
 ly towards Miss Searle. To do him justice, he 
 didn't see it — he had confided the story of his 
 marriage to her, and it did not enter into his
 
 THE ^lAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN T 
 
 thoughts that she might care for him seriously 
 notwithstanding; his experiences had given him 
 no cause to esteem himself dangerous, and the 
 lover who has never received favours is, in prac- 
 tice, always modest, though in aspirations he may 
 be Juanesque. The suitor of quick perceptions 
 has been made by other women, as everybody but 
 the least sophisticated of debutantes knows. 
 
 But if he did not dream that he might trouble 
 the peace of JNIiss Searle, he was perpetually con- 
 scious that ]Miss Searle had disturbed his own. A 
 month's daily companionhsip with a tempera- 
 ment, plus a fascinating face, would be danger- 
 ous to any man — to Wendover it was fatal. His 
 thoughts turned no longer to liaisons with duch- 
 esses; his work, itself, was secondary to Rhoda 
 Searle. Silly fellow as he appears, the emotions 
 wakened in him were no less genuine than if he 
 had combined all the noble qualities with which 
 he invested the heroes of his books. Besides, 
 most people would appear silly in a description 
 which dealt only with their weaknesses. Wendo- 
 ver loved, and he cursed the tie that prevented 
 his asking the girl to be his wife. How happy 
 he might have been ! 
 
 He had feared that the last evening would be a 
 melancholy one. But it was gay — the greater 
 part of it was gay, at any rate. As soon as the
 
 8 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 door slammed behind them he saw that she had 
 resolved to keep the thought of the morrow's 
 journey in the background, to help him to turn 
 the farewell into a fete. Her laughing caution 
 was unnecessary; her voice, her eyes had given 
 him the cue — her journey was to be undertaken 
 in the distant future, life was dehcious, and they 
 were out to enjoy themselves! He had proposed 
 dining at Armenonville — it wasn't the Paris that 
 she had knovtn, but champagne and fashion 
 seemed the right thing to-night; and no fiacre 
 had ever before sped so blithely, never had the 
 Bois been so enchanting, and never had another 
 girl been such joyous company. After dinner, 
 the Ambassadeurs ! The programme? They 
 didn't listen to much of it, they were chattering 
 <ill the time. It was only when the lamps died 
 out that he heard a sigh; it was only when the 
 lamps died out that the morning train, and the 
 parting, and the blank beginning of the after- 
 wards, seemed to him so horriblv near. 
 
 The little salon was half dark when they 
 reached the pension de famille, everybody else 
 had gone to bed. Wendover turned up the light, 
 and, though she said it was too late to sit down, 
 they stood talking by the mantelpiece. "You've 
 given me a heavenly memory for the end," she
 
 THE IVIAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 9 
 
 told him; "thanks so much! I shall be thinking 
 of it at this time to-morrow." 
 
 "So shall I," said Wendover. 
 
 She took off her hat, and pulled her hair right 
 before the mirror. "Shall you?" 
 
 "Will you write to me ?" 
 
 "Yes, if you'd like me to." 
 
 "I'd more than like it — I shall look forward to 
 your letters tremendously." 
 
 "There won't be much to say in them." 
 
 "They'll be from you. ... I wish you weren't 
 going." 
 
 She raised her eyes to him. "Why?" she asked. 
 
 Wendover kept silent a moment — it was the 
 hardest thing that he had done in his hfe. If he 
 answered, "Because I love you," he felt that he 
 would be a cad. Besides, she must know very 
 well that he loved her — what good would it do 
 to tell her so? — doubtless she had repented her 
 question in the moment of putting it! Yes, he 
 would be a cad to confess to her — she would think 
 less of him for it. lie would choose the beau 
 role — and she would alwavs remember that, when 
 he might have spoilt their last scene together and 
 pained her, he had been strong, heroic! 
 
 "We've been such pals," he said. That she 
 mightn't underrate the heroism, he turned aside.
 
 10 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 as the noble fellow in books does when he is 
 struggling. 
 
 After a pause, she murmured blankly, "It's 
 time I said 'good-night.' " 
 
 She went to him and gave him her hand. Her 
 clasp was fervent — it was encouraging to feel 
 that she was grateful! Her gaze held him, and 
 her eyes were wide, dark, troubled; he was sure 
 that she was sorry for him. 
 
 "Good-night, my dear," said Wendover, still 
 as brave as the fellow in the books. And when 
 he had watched her go up the stairs — when she 
 had turned again, with that look in her eyes, and 
 turned away — ^he went back to the salon and was 
 wretched beyond words to tell, for a fool may 
 love as deeply as the wisest. 
 
 This was really their "good-bye" — in the 
 morning the claims on her were many, and he 
 was not the only one who drove to the station 
 with her. 
 
 When she had been gone between two and 
 three weeks, he received the promised letter. It 
 told him little but that she was "the new drawing 
 mistress"; of her thoughts, her attitude towards 
 her new life, it said nothing. He replied prompt- 
 ly, questioning her; but she wrote no more, and 
 not the least of his regrets was the thought that 
 she had dismissed him from her mind so easily.
 
 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 11 
 
 He did not remain much longer in the board- 
 ing-house, its associations hurt him too much. A 
 sandy-haired girl, with no eyelashes and red ears, 
 occupied the seat that had been Rhoda's at the 
 table, and the newcomer's unconcerned posses- 
 sion of it stabbed him at every meal. Having 
 taken precautions against letters for him going 
 astray, he returned to the hotel, and there month 
 after month he plodded at his book, and tried to 
 forget. 
 
 Nearly a year had gone by when he stood again 
 on the deck of a Channel boat. He had not 
 spared himself, and the novel was finished, and 
 he was satisfied with it; but he was as much in 
 love as he had been on the morning when he 
 watched a train steam from the gare St. Lazare. 
 As he paced the deck he thought of Rhoda all 
 the time ; it excited him that he was going to Eng- 
 land, he might chance to see her — he might even 
 run down to Beckenhampton for a day or two? 
 It would make the situation harder to bear after- 
 wards, of course, but 
 
 He looked up "Beckenhampton" in the Rail- 
 way Guide often during the next few days. The 
 distance between them was marvellously short — 
 the knowledge that an hour and a half's journey 
 could yield her face to him again had a touch of 
 the magical in it. An hour and a half from
 
 12 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 Hades to Olympus! The longing fevered him. 
 He threw some things into a bag pellmell one 
 morning, and caught the 10.15. 
 
 "The George Hotel!" — and from the hotel he 
 directed the driver to the school. The little town 
 was grey and drear; he pitied her acutely as he 
 gazed about him from the fly. He understood 
 how her spirit must beat itself against the bars, 
 he realised what her arrival must have meant to 
 her ; behind one of the windows of this prison she 
 had sat looking back upon her yesterday ! How 
 the year must have changed her ! he wondered if 
 she still smiled. The fly jolted into the narrow 
 High Street — and he saw her coming out of the 
 post-office. 
 
 Yes, she still smiled — the smile that irradiated 
 her face and made him forget everything else! 
 Thej^ stood outside the post-office together, clasp- 
 ing hands once more. 
 
 "You! what are you doing here?" she cried. 
 "I was just going to see you, I've just come 
 from the station. How are you ? You look very 
 well." 
 
 "I'm all right. Are j^ou back for good?" 
 
 "Yes, I left Paris a few days ago." 
 
 "Did you stay on at the pension?" 
 
 "Oh no, I gave that up soon after you went."
 
 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 13 
 
 "You've finished your book, eh?" 
 
 *'How did you know?" 
 
 "I saw something about it in a paper. And 
 how's Paris? I dream I'm back sometimes." 
 
 "Paris is just the same." 
 
 "I suppose you never saw anj^thing of the oth- 
 ers afterwards — Kitty Owen, or the INIacAlhster 
 girl?" 
 
 "No, I never came across any of them — I was 
 working very hard. Well? Tell me things; 
 what's the news? You're still at the school 
 then?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "No? Aren't you? I was on my way there. 
 What are you doing?" 
 1 m married. 
 
 The blood sank from his cheeks. "Married?" 
 
 "I've been married four months." 
 
 A woman came between them to post a letter, 
 and he was grateful for the interruption. "Let 
 me congratulate you." 
 
 "Thanks. 3Iy husband's a solicitor here, . . . 
 You'll come and see us?" 
 
 "I'm afraid ... I should have been delighted, 
 of course, but I have to be in town again this 
 evening." 
 
 "We'd better move — we're in everybody's
 
 14* THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 way," she said. "Will you walk on with me? 
 When does the book come out?" 
 
 "In a few weeks' time — I'll send a copy to 
 you." 
 
 "Really? It would be very good of you. I've 
 often looked at the book columns to see if it was 
 published." 
 
 "Have you? I was afraid you'd forgotten all 
 about me. . . . You — you might have written 
 again ; you promised to write !" 
 
 "I know." 
 
 "Why didn't you?" 
 
 "What was the good?" 
 
 "It would have made me happier. I missed 
 you frightfully. I — I think that was why I left 
 the pension, I couldn't stand it when you'd gone. 
 . . . Well, are ^/o?/' happy?" 
 
 "Oh, I suppose so." 
 
 "I'm glad." 
 
 "So you won't come and see us?" 
 
 "It's impossible, I'm sorry to say. . . . As a 
 matter of fact, I didn't mean to see you again 
 at all." 
 
 "That's a pretty compliment!" 
 
 "Ah, you know what I mean — it seemed bet- 
 ter that I shouldn't. But ... I think I'm glad 
 I did; I don't know! I've wondered sometimes
 
 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 15 
 
 whether you understood. . . . We shan't meet 
 any more, and I should Uke you to know " 
 
 "Don't," she exclaimed thickly. "For heav- 
 en's sake!" 
 
 "I must," said Wendover — "I loved you 
 dearly!" 
 
 They had walked some yards before she an- 
 swered; her voice was a whisper; "What's the 
 use of saying that to me now?" The bitterness 
 of suffering was in the words — they flared the 
 truth on him, the annihilating truth. 
 
 "My God!" he faltered, "would it have been 
 any use then?'' 
 
 Her face was colourless. She didn't speak. 
 
 "Rhoda, did you care? If — if I had asked 
 you to stay with me, would you have stayed?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "Tell me." 
 
 "Yes, then, I would have stayed!" she said 
 hoarsely. "Whom should I have hurt? I was 
 alone, I had no one to study but myself. I want- 
 ed you to ask me. Stayed? I'd have thanked 
 God if you had spoken! You were bhnd, you 
 wouldn't see. And now, when it's too late, you 
 come and say it!" 
 
 "I wanted to be straight to you," he groaned. 
 "I sacrificed my happiness to be straight to you 
 ■ — it was damnably hard to do."
 
 16 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 "I know. But I didn't want sacrifices — I 
 wanted love. . . . Oh, it's no good our talking 
 about it!" She stopped, and sighed. "We shall 
 both get over it, I suppose." 
 
 ''Is it too late?" pleaded Wendover brokenly. 
 
 "Quite. Things aren't the same; last year I 
 was free to do as I Jiked. I have no conventions, 
 but I have a conscience — there's my husband to 
 consider now, and — and more, too. I shouldn't 
 be contented like that to-day — I should have 
 injured others. You and I let our chance slide, 
 and we shall never get it back. . . . Smile, and 
 say something about nothing — there are people 
 who know me coming along." 
 
 And he did not sleep at the George after all; 
 in the next train that left for Euston, a grey- 
 faced man sat with wide eyes, cursing his own 
 obtuseness. And he has not met her since. There 
 is, of course, a brighter side to the history — al- 
 though Rhoda is unhappy, she is happier than 
 she would have remained with Wendover when 
 the gilt was off the gingerbread; and though 
 Wendover will never forget her, he cherishes her 
 memory with more tenderness than he would 
 have continued to cherish the girl. 
 
 But neither she nor he recognises this, and in 
 JTendover's latest work, one may see the hne
 
 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 17 
 
 that has been quoted : "Our bitterest remorse is 
 not for our sins, but for our stupidities." 
 
 The reception of the novel was most flattering, 
 and as usual the author's "insight into the mind 
 of Woman" has been pronounced "remarkable."
 
 A VERY GOOD THING FOR THE GIRL 
 
 Bagot told us this tale in the Stage Door Club 
 one night. We were sitting round the fire, talk- 
 ing of perfect love, and somebody asked him if 
 he had ever thought of marrying. 
 
 "Once," said the comedian cheerfully. 
 
 "Couldn't you afford it?" His talent and the 
 remains of his good looks were worth fifty 
 pounds a week to him then, but there had been 
 days — well, listen to Bagot! 
 
 "It wasn't that I couldn't afford it," he said 
 with a laugh; "actors never wait till they can 
 afford it. I escaped in a curious way. What 
 saved me was being such an artist. Fact! I 
 was really smitten. If I hadn't been an artist in 
 spite of myself I should be shivering in the last 
 train home to Bedford Park now, instead of 
 talking to you dear boys in an arm-chair, with a 
 glass at my side. What? Oh, I'll tell you about 
 it with pleasure! 
 
 "Of course, you know I made my name as the 
 'Rev. Simon Tibbits' in poor Pulteney's Touch 
 and Go. Some things a man doesn't forget, and 
 I remember how I felt when I settled for the part 
 
 18
 
 A VERY GOOD THING FOR THE GIRL 1& 
 
 better than I remember yesterday. You see it 
 was my first London engagement, and I had 
 been trying to get one in London for sixteen 
 years. Sixteen years I had been on the road — 
 and seen the amateurs with money sauntering on 
 to the West End stage from their Varsity Club ! 
 
 "]\Iy agent had told me to try my luck at the 
 office over the theatre, one morning in July, and 
 when I went in, there was nobody there but a 
 young man who I guessed must be Pulteney. He 
 was sitting at the table with a pencil in his hand, 
 fiddling with a model of one of the scenes, and 
 looking as worried as if he had been Chancellor 
 of the Exchequer. 
 
 " 'Have I the honour of speaking to Mr. Pul- 
 teney?' said I. In those days I imagined authors 
 were important persons. 
 
 "He flushed, and smiled — rather on the wrong 
 side of his mouth, I thought. 'That's my name.' 
 
 *' 'I was sent round to see you about the part 
 of the clergyman in your farcical comedy, Mr, 
 Pulteney,' I said. I had really been sent to see 
 the stage-manager, but soft soap is never wasted, 
 and I was always a bit of a diplomatist. 
 
 "He asked me to sit down, and we talked. He 
 was smoking a cigarette, and I thought for a 
 moment he was going to offer me one. I suppose 
 it occurred to him that it wouldn't be the right
 
 20 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 thing to ask an actor to smoke in the manager's 
 room, for he threw his own cigarette away. He 
 was a gentleman, poor Pulteney, though he was 
 a deuced bad dramatist. 
 
 "The manager came bustling back soon, and 
 began to hum and haw, but Pulteney put in a 
 word that made it all right. I was told it was a 
 capital part, and a big chance for me, and I 
 skipped downstairs and out into the street, feel- 
 ing as pufFed-up as if I owned the Strand. As 
 a matter of fact, the salary wasn't much — I had 
 had better money in the provinces — but the 
 thought of making a hit in the West End so 
 excited me that I was nearly popping with pride. 
 
 "Great Cumberland Place! wasn't I sold when 
 the part came. You've no idea how duffing it 
 really was. I don't mind saying that a good 
 many jolly fine comedians would never have got 
 a laugh in it. When I read the jokes I could 
 have cried. It wasn't funny as the author wrote 
 it, dear boys, believe me. I don't want to brag 
 of what I've done — I'm not the man to gas about 
 myself— but it was the character I put into it 
 that made Pulteney's piece ! 
 
 "Well, the rehearsals weren't beginning for 
 three weeks, and I kept hoping I'd see how to do 
 something with it before the first call. I spoke 
 the lines one way, and I spoke the lines another
 
 A VERY GOOD THING FOR THE GIRL 21 
 
 way, and the more I studied the glummer I felt 
 I had my dinner at Exeter Hall several times 
 and listened to the people giving their orders; it 
 was cheap, and I thought I might hear the sort 
 of tone I was trying to get hold of. But I didn't. 
 On the Sunday I went to three churches and sat 
 through three sermons. Honest Injun! And 
 that was no use. Talk about an R.A.'s difficulty 
 in finding the right model? I spent eight dusty 
 days scouring London for a model for the 'Rev. 
 Simon Tibbits'! 
 
 "Then one afternoon I had come out of Pross- 
 ers' Avenue. As it happened I wasn't thinking 
 shop; I wasn't thinking about anything in par- 
 ticular; and all of a sudden I heard a voice. A 
 voice? I heard the voice. I heard the voice I 
 needed for the part I 
 
 "I jumped. My heart was in my throat. 
 There, smiling up at a six-foot constable, was a 
 little parson asking the way to Baker Street. He 
 looked like an elderly cherub, with his pink 
 cheeks, and his innocent, inquiring eyes. I held 
 my breath in the hope he would go on talking, 
 but the policeman had answered him, and he 
 tripped along with merely a 'Thank you.' He 
 ^ripped along with the oddest walk I have ever 
 ^een; and I dodged after him, never taking my
 
 22 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 gaze off his legs and studying them all the way 
 to Charing Cross. 
 
 "As I expected, he was going by bus. There 
 was one just moving. Up went his umbrella; 
 and the next moment I was on the step, too, in- 
 tending to lure him into conversation as soon as 
 I could, and master his voice as nicely as I was 
 mastering his legs. 
 
 " 'Full inside,' said the conductor, putting his 
 dirty hand before my face. I was so annoyed I 
 could have punched his head! 
 
 "Well, there was nothing for it but to go on 
 top and wait for someone to get out. Hang it, 
 nobody did get out; and I saw no more of my 
 little model till we reached Baker Street. I 
 meant to let him walk a few yards, and then ask 
 him to direct me to Lord's, but there was a sur- 
 prise for me ; he tripped across the road into the 
 station. 'Oho,' I said to myself, 'training it? So 
 much the better! We're going to have a com- 
 fortable chat together, after all, you and I !' 
 
 "I kept as close to him when he took his ticket 
 as if I'd designs on his watch, and I heard him 
 say, 'Thu'd class to Rickmansworth, if you 
 please.' This was rather awkward — I didn't 
 want to pay a long fare, and I didn't know the 
 line well ; I had to book as far as Rickmansworth, 
 too. When we got round to the platform the
 
 A VERY GOOD THING FOR THE GIRL 23 
 
 train was there, and he hovered up and down for 
 five minutes or more, looking for a seat to suit 
 him; I began to think we'd both be left behind. 
 Then just as they were slamming the doors, he 
 made up his mind. In he went, and I after him, 
 and — what do you think? We were both on the 
 same side of the compartment, with a fat wo:iian 
 and a soldier between us! 
 
 "Two passengers between us, I give you my 
 word, and no room opposite. Not only I couldn't 
 talk to him — I couldn't even see him. Every 
 time we drew into a station I prayed the com- 
 partment would thin a bit ; I sat tense, watching 
 the faces. Not a sign on them! You've heard 
 of the American rustic who got so exasperated 
 standing up in a crowded car, that at last he 
 shouted, 'Say! ain't none o' you people got 
 homes?' That was how I felt." 
 
 Bagot's imitation of the rustic was very good, 
 and we signified our appreciation in the usual 
 way. When the laugh was over someone told 
 the waiter we were thirsty, and the story-teller 
 filled his pipe. 
 
 "Well," he resumed, puffing, "to cut a long 
 journey short, we reached Rickmans worth with- 
 out my having had a glimpse of my gentleman. I 
 was about desperate now. lie hadn't taken a 
 dozen steps when I overtook him, and asked if
 
 24j the man who UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 he would be kind enough to inform me whether 
 any decent apartments were to be had in the vil- 
 lage. It didn't seem worth while to have had all 
 this bother just to hear him speak again for ten 
 seconds, and I was wishing myself back in my 
 apartments in Kennington. I said the first thing 
 that came into my head. 
 
 "It turned out to be the best question I could 
 have put. 
 
 "I am a visitor myself," he said, beaming at 
 me, "but I believe there are rooms to be had in 
 Cornstalk Terrace. Yes, I am alaiost positive 
 I noticed a card in a window as I passed through 
 the street this morning." 
 
 "I stood simply lapping his voice up. 
 
 " 'Is it difficult for a stranger to find ?' I asked. 
 
 " 'No, indeed,' he said, 'it is quite near. But 
 I am going there; if you care to accompany 
 me ' 
 
 " 'Oh, you're too good!' I exclaimed, and upon 
 my word I could have hugged him ! 
 
 "The road was a great deal nearer than I 
 wanted it to be, for he was chirruping to me 
 beautifully, and I hated to part from him. When 
 we arrived I effervesced with gratitude, and he 
 hoped I'd find comfortable quarters; and then I 
 went straight back to the station — and heard that 
 I had just missed a train! Pleasant? Rick-
 
 A VERY GOOD THING FOR THE GIRL 25 
 
 mansworth isn't the sprightliest place I've ever 
 waited in either. I had some nourishment in the 
 bar of the hotel across the way, and I examined 
 the High Street. It wasn't extensive. The bar- 
 maid had told me there was a park close by, so 
 I started to discover it. I wasn't keen on the 
 park, you understand, but I thought it would be 
 a nice quiet spot to rehearse in and see if I had 
 caught the little cleric's voice. As I was going 
 along, past a row of villas, blest if I didn't come 
 across him again, standing at his gate ! 
 
 "He supposed I had been hunting for lodgings 
 all the time, so, of course, I had to keep the game 
 up. He was a friendly old chap and, honour 
 bright, I felt sorry to think I was going to turn 
 him into ridicule on the stage. Still he would 
 never know, and actors can't be choosers. He 
 went inside to ask his landlady if she could rec- 
 ommend any diggings to me ; and a minute after- 
 wards, out he fluttered to say he had quite for- 
 gotten there would be a couple of rooms vacant 
 in that very house next day. Christopher Colum- 
 bus! I had had no more idea of taking rooms 
 than I had of taking the Theatre Royal, Drury 
 Lane. But it was too gigantic a chance to miss. 
 I fixed the matter with the old woman there and 
 then — and the next morning my model and I 
 Were living under the same roof! . . . Pass the
 
 26 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 matches, one of you fellows, my pipe's out. . . . 
 
 "At the back of the house there were some let- 
 tuces and a clothes-prop that were called a 'gar- 
 den.' My parlour was at the back, too ; and after 
 dinner I saw the rector airing himself. By now 
 I had learnt he was a rector. I lost no time in 
 joining him, you may be sure — I wasn't paying 
 two rents to go to sleep on the sofa — and we dis- 
 cussed politics and public libraries. It was a bit 
 heavy for me, but I didn't worry much what he 
 talked about so long as I could hear his dulcet 
 tones. I ought to have said there was a bench 
 against the clothes-prop ; so far as her means per- 
 mitted, the old woman did things handso iiely. 
 
 "There was a bench, and we sat down on it; 
 and while we were sitting there, the door opened 
 — and out into the sunshine there came a young 
 and beautiful girl. She wore a white cotton 
 frock, and there was no paint or powder on her 
 face, and she had the kind of eyes that make you 
 want to say your prayers and be good. I'm not 
 going to gush — I'm holding myself in — but on 
 my honour she was just the saintliest picture of 
 English maidenhood ever seen in a poet's dream ! 
 
 " 'My daughter,' said my model. 
 
 "I was so staggered that I bowed like a super 
 at a bob a night. 
 
 "Yes, the old woman did things handsomely —
 
 A VERY GOOD THING FOR THE GIRL 27 
 
 there was room for three on the bench. She 
 sat by me, turning a backyard into paradise — I 
 mean the girl, not the old woman — and I forgot 
 to study her father for half an hour. I heard 
 where his living was, and why they were taking 
 a holiday, and I stammered that I was an actor, 
 and was afraid they'd be shocked. I was stupid 
 to own it, though it was all right and they didn't 
 mind ; but there was something in that girl's eyes 
 that forced the truth from you in spite of your- 
 self. I had been going to say I was in the City, 
 but the lie stuck. 
 
 "There's some fine country round Rickmans- 
 worth — 'Ricky,' the natives call it — and we used 
 to explore, the three of us. We'd go to Chorley 
 Wood, and to Chenies — what a good back cloth 
 Chenies would make! By the end of the week 
 we were together nearly all the day. They invit- 
 ed me into their room to supper, and after supper 
 Marion would sing at a decrepit piano. The 
 meals were quite plain, you know — sometimes 
 we'd pick the green stuff in the garden ourselves 
 — but, boys, the peace of that little village room 
 in the lamplight! The minister and his child — 
 the simple. God-fearing man and that girl with 
 her deep, grave eyes, and earnest voice. Their 
 devotion to each other, the homeliness of it all! 
 To me, a touring player, it was sweet, it was
 
 28 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 wonderful, to be welcomed in an atmosphere of 
 home. 
 
 "If the comedy had been put into rehearsal on 
 the date arranged it would have been better for 
 me. But it wasn't — the rehearsals were post- 
 poned — and soon I was thinking much more of 
 Marion than of my part. I used to talk to her 
 of — well, of things I had never talked of to any- 
 one except my mother when I was a kid. Some- 
 how I didn't feel ashamed to talk of them to that 
 girl. She took me out of myself. She raised me 
 up. The footlights were forgotten. 
 
 "Oh, I had no right to think of her in the way 
 I did, of course ! What could I hope for ? There 
 was a world between us, and I saw it. I told 
 myself that I had done all I came to do, and 
 that I ought to go back to town at once! I told 
 myself I was mad to stay there. But I knew I 
 loved her. I loved her as I have never loved a 
 woman since — and there were moments when I 
 thought that she was fond of m^." 
 
 Bagot, it was rapidly becoming evident to us, 
 had forgotten that he had prefaced the story by 
 congratulating himself on not having married 
 the girl. His voice trembled. We saw that, car- 
 ried away by his own intensity as a narrator, he 
 was beginning to beheve he was a blighted being.
 
 A VERY GOOD THING FOR THE GIRL 29 
 
 But we looked sympathetic, and let him work it 
 up. 
 
 "One day she owned she cared for me," he 
 continued, with a far-away air. "It was the day 
 before they were going home, and we were talk- 
 ing of our 'friendship.' Somehow I — I lost my 
 head, and she was crying in my arms. 
 
 "I asked her to marry me. I swore she should 
 never repent it. She sat listening to me with her 
 hands limp in her lap, and a look on her face that 
 I shall see till I die. She was afraid — not of me, 
 but that her father wouldn't consent. They had 
 no violent prejudice against the theatre, but she 
 had never been to one in her life; for her to 
 marry an actor seemed an impossible thing. 
 
 "I went to him right off. I told him I wor- 
 shipped her; I implored him to trust her to me. 
 It was an awful shock to him ; I don't believe he 
 had had a suspicion of the state of affairs — he re- 
 proached himself for letting it come about. But 
 he was very gentle. He said he had hoped for a 
 far different future for her, still that all he want- 
 ed was for his child to be happy; he said he 
 couldn't stand in her way if he knew she was 
 really sure of herself. In the end he promised 
 she should marry me if she wanted to in three 
 years' time. 
 
 "When I parted from her we considered we
 
 30 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 were engaged ; and in the evening, after they left, 
 I went to town, 
 
 "I went to town, and there was a call for the 
 first rehearsal of Touch and Go. I had forgot- 
 ten business, I had forgotten everything but Ma- 
 rion. That call paralysed me. I saw what I had 
 done, I realised the situation. The girl I was to 
 marry reverenced her father — and I meant to 
 burlesque him on the stage ! 
 
 "I couldn't do it, I wouldn't! How could I 
 think of it now? It wasn't that I feared their 
 finding it out — as I tell you, they weren't play- 
 goers, and their home was a good way off besides 
 — it was the heartlessness of the thing that fright- 
 ened me. To make myself up as her father? To 
 speak the bland, hypocritical lines of the part in 
 her father's voice, to mimic him, to turn him into 
 ridicule to amuse a crowd. I say how could I 
 doit? 
 
 "All the same it was precious difficult to avoid, 
 for I had studied him so long. But I went to 
 the show box the first day and rehearsed as I had 
 expected to rehearse before I met him. Perhaps 
 not so well; it was a strain not to be like him 
 after all my study, and it made me pretty rotten. 
 I rehearsed so the first day, and for three or four 
 days, and presently I began to notice that the 
 Management was a bit unhappy, and that Pul-
 
 A VERY GOOD THING FOR THE GIRL 31 
 
 teney nearly twisted his moustache out during 
 my scenes. If an author has written a bad part, 
 trust him to blame the actor! He button-holed 
 me at last, and begged me 'to put a little more 
 character into it.' And I tried to. But I knew 
 it was a failure, for I could only see one charac- 
 ter all the time — and that one I wouldn't touch. 
 
 "When I was in the stalls once, he and the 
 manager sat down and put their heads together. 
 It was dark in front, and they hadn't seen me as 
 they came round. I heard them say something 
 about 'a pity they hadn't a West End actor for 
 the part.' I knew they were talking of my part» 
 and it got my dandei up ; I knew I could act any 
 of that West End hoity-toity company off the 
 stage ; I knew I had only to let myself go. 
 
 "When I went on again I determined I'd show 
 'em what I could do; I determined I'd show 'em 
 they had a better comedian than any forty-pound 
 -a-weeker. I sent them into fits. 'Hallo!' they 
 said. The women in the wings stopped talking 
 about their dresses to watch me. The highly 
 connected amateurs from Oxford and Cambridge 
 began to give at the knees, and I could hear the 
 leading man's heart drop on to the boards; the 
 actor from the provinces was wiping them outl 
 That rehearsal was the sweetest triumph of my 
 life.
 
 32 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 "She'd never know — she'd never know! I 
 kept telling myself she couldn't hear of it. By 
 the time the wig that I ordered was tried on I 
 felt as sure of success as I was of my lines! I 
 yvsis soaked in the part. I wasn't acting the little 
 rector — by George, I was the little rector, trip, 
 face and chirrup. And the first night came, and 
 I was to play in London at last ! 
 
 "They told me the house was crammed. All 
 the swell critics were there, all the fashionable 
 first-nighters. I was so nervous that the wig- 
 paste shook in my hands when I made up, but 
 I was ready much too soon. 
 
 "I went downstairs and waited. The door- 
 keeper gave me a note. Of all the ! It was 
 
 from Marion. A friend had brought her up to 
 see me, and she was in the theatre. I was 
 stunned, I thought I was going to fall. You 
 know — every man in this room knows — that for 
 an actor to remodel his performance at the last 
 minute would be a miracle. I couldn't do it, it 
 wasn't in my power ; but even then I thought I'd 
 try. I said I miist try^ though it would ruin me! 
 And I heard my cue. 
 
 "My first fines went for nothing. I floun- 
 dered — the audience were ice; I saw the people 
 on the stage looking at me aghast. Then sudden- 
 ly I got a laugh : a gesture, an intonation, some-
 
 A VERY GOOD THING FOR THE GIRL 3S 
 
 thing I had been trying to hold back, had es- 
 caped me. The laugh went to my head — I made 
 them laugh again! I said I'd explain to Marion 
 — that she'd understand, that she'd forgive me — 
 and even while I said it, my other self, the 'self 
 that wasn't acting, knew it was a lie and I was 
 losing her. 
 
 i *'I couldn't help it — the laughter made me 
 drunk; I did it all I I knew the disgust she must 
 be feeling, but the audience were roaring at me 
 now ; I felt the shame that she was suffering with 
 my own heart, but the artist in me swept me on. 
 The manager panted at me in the wings : 'You're 
 great — you're immense. Gad! you're making 
 the hit of the piece !' The stalls were in convul- 
 sions, the gallery had got my name. 'Bagotf 
 they were shouting — after each act, 'Bagot!^ 
 Pulteney rushed to me with blessings at the end. 
 The house thundered for me. It was London! 
 I knew that I was 'made' ! But across the flare 
 of grinning faces, I seemed to see the Angel 1 
 had lost and the horror in her eyes." 
 
 Bagot bowed his head; his pipe had fallen, 
 tears dripped down his cheeks. By this time he 
 was quite sure he had been mourning for her ever 
 since beside a lonely hearth. 
 
 "She WTote to me next day, breaking it off,"
 
 64. THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 he groaned. "She wouldn't hsten to reason; she 
 said it 'might be art, but it wasn't love.' " 
 
 "Did you ever see her afterwards?" we asked. 
 
 "Once," he said, "years later. She married 
 some County chap, with an estate and all that. I 
 saw her driving with her little boy. She looked 
 very happy I thought. Women soon forget." 
 After a pause he added bitterly: "If one of you 
 fellows" — he glanced at the only author in the 
 group — "cares to write the true tragedy of a 
 man's life, there it is. You might call it 'The 
 Price of Success.' " 
 
 But we all thought a more appropriate title 
 would be the one that I have used.
 
 THE WOMAN WHO WISHED TO DIE 
 
 My meeting with JVIr. Peters was so momen- 
 tous that I can't resist mentioning it was due to 
 someone I had never seen — to a trifle; I can't 
 resist referring to my own affairs for a moment. 
 I was supposed to be at work on a novel, and I 
 had a mind as fertile as mashed potato. One day 
 in August I tumbled a receipt out of a desk, and 
 saw that the lady to whom I sent my stories to be 
 typewritten had had nothing from me to type- 
 write for two months. The discovery dismayed 
 me. I was ashamed to realise how slowly I was 
 getting on, and resolved to try a change of sur- 
 roundings. JNIy trip altered the course of lives — 
 and I shouldn't have made it but for the reproach 
 of a stranger's receipt. 
 
 I decided upon Ostend, by way of Antwerp, 
 where I wanted to see the pictures ; also I meant 
 to visit Brussels, where I wanted to see my pret- 
 tiest cousin. And in Antwerp — behold Mr. Pe- 
 ters! As I was wandering through the gallery, 
 an American asked me if I could tell him in which 
 of the rooms he would find "The Last Commun- 
 ion of St. Francis of Assisi." Having just been 
 
 35
 
 S6 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 directed to it myself — just been startled by the 
 faultless fluency of an official's English — I had 
 the information pat, and the American and I 
 proceeded to the room together. 
 
 I remexiber feeling it incumbent on me to be 
 pained bj^ the first words he spoke in front of tKe 
 picture. 
 
 "I am told," he remarked, "that Rubens sold 
 this work for sixty pounds, English money, and 
 that forty thousand pounds were subsequently 
 paid for it. Kough on Rubens!" 
 
 I affected the tone of the Superior Person. 
 "You would see it better if you stood further 
 away," I said; "what do you think of the paint- 
 ing?" 
 
 "Of the painting," he answered, "I am no 
 judge, but the way the value of that property 
 has risen just astonishes me." 
 
 I did not think I should like him, but I began 
 to like him surprisingly soon. He was a sad- 
 faced, middle-aged man, with a simple manner 
 that was wonderfully winning. In less than five 
 minutes I was humiliated that I had sneered at 
 him in front of "St. Francis of Assisi." By what 
 right, how much did I understand of it myself? 
 My attitude had been nine-tenths pose. This 
 man was genuine ; he spoke of what he found in- 
 teresting. And he proved anything but a fool.
 
 THE WOMAN WHO WISHED TO DIE 37 
 
 We went down the steps of the Musee des 
 Beaux Arts side by side, and strolled through the 
 hot streets, among the swarm of ragged Flemish 
 children — there are more ragged children to the 
 square yard in Antwerp than in Westbourne 
 Park — to the quarter of the hotels. It turned 
 out that we were stapng at the same one, he on 
 the first floor and I on the fifth, and after dinner 
 we drifted together to the place Verte, and talked 
 there under the trees while the band played. 
 
 He told me that he had not been to Europe be- 
 fore, and I discerned that he was a lonely man 
 persevering with the effort to enjoy himself. 
 
 "The fact is," he said, handing me his cigar- 
 case, "I ought to have made the trip some years 
 ago. — Won't you tiy a cigar, sir? — There's noth- 
 ing the matter with Europe, but I guess I'm not 
 quite so keen on sight-seeing as I was. When I 
 was a lad I was dead-stuck on coming over, but 
 I hadn't the dollars then. I promised myself to 
 have a good time when I was thirty, and I 
 hustled. When I was thirty I had made a few 
 dollars, but I saw no chance of the good time — 
 I was still hustling. One afternoon it occurred 
 to me that I was forty. It displeased me some; 
 seemed to me that good time was never coming. 
 At the start I had aimed to be the boss of a busi- 
 ness, but now the business had got so big it was
 
 S8 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 bossing me. 'Well,' I said, 'you have made yom* 
 pile, and you have nobody to spend it on but 
 yourself ; next year you shall quit, and have that 
 good time you have been working for so long.' 
 But it didn't come off. The business went 
 on swelling, and I went on saying, 'Next year.' 
 And before I knew where I was I was fifty, 
 and" — his voice dropped a little — "and I have 
 never had the good time yet." 
 
 He was leaving for Ostend the next morning, 
 and, when we parted, I was sorry he wasn't to 
 remain in Antwerp till the end of the week like 
 myself. However, at Ostend I expected we 
 should meet again, for I did not mean to stay 
 long in Brussels. It is a beautiful city, and many 
 of us would admire it much more if it did not set 
 us yearning for Paris. The resemblance is strik- 
 ing, but the fascination is absent. To go to Brus- 
 sels is like calling on the sister of the woman one 
 is in love with. Brussels is Paris provincialised ; 
 one realises it before one has sat outside a cafe 
 for an hour and watched the types go by. Liter- 
 ally it is provincialised in August, when most of 
 the theatres are closed, and the streets are peo- 
 pled by excursionists. I had intended to stay 
 three of four days at most, but duty to my rela- 
 tives kept me with them for ten or twelve, and at
 
 THE WOiVIAN WHO WISHED TO DIE 39 
 
 last when I did reach Ostend I had ahnost for- 
 gotten Mr. Peters. 
 
 The thought of him recurred to me as I made 
 my way towards the Kursaal on the first evening, 
 and I wondered if he was still here. It was eight 
 o'clock, and now that the glare of sun upon the 
 blistered Digue had faded, and the radiance of 
 electricity had risen in its stead, the town was 
 looking its best. Ostend was still dining. The 
 long continuous line of hotel windows fronting 
 the sea was brilhant. Window after window, 
 wide, curtainless, and open to the view. A front- 
 age of gleaming tables and coloured candle- 
 shades — a dazzling frontage of flowers, and 
 faces, and women's jewelled necks and arms. 
 
 In the Kursaal the orchestra was playing 
 "L'Amico Fritz." I had listened to the music 
 for perhaps half an hour when I saw ]Mr. Peters. 
 He was with a friend, and he passed without ob- 
 serving me. They sat down a short distance off 
 and I noticed that he was talking with much an- 
 imation to her, with much more animation than 
 he had shown with me. Indeed, I think that was 
 what I noticed first of all — the unexpected ani- 
 mation of Mr. Peters. 
 
 But the next instant I was engrossed by his 
 companion. She was not youthful ; I didn't con- 
 sider her pretty; her dress, rich as it was, ap-
 
 40 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 peared to me a dowdy sort of thing among the 
 elaborate toilettes around us. Then what en- 
 grossed me? Well, it was the expression that 
 she wore. I am trying to find the word. "Pleas- 
 ure," of course — but that says nothing. As near- 
 ly as I can explain, it was the wonder in her look. 
 The "wonder," that is it ! There were crow's-feet 
 about her eyes, and her gaze shone with a young 
 girl's wonder. 
 
 Evidently the interest in the conversation was 
 mutual, and I assumed that they had known each 
 other in the States. Then a second trnie they 
 passed me, and I heard her speak, and she had 
 no trace of the American accent. It began to 
 seem to me that Mr. Peters had been losing no 
 time at Ostend. 
 
 I saw him with her again on the morrow, and 
 on the next day, but two or three days went by 
 before I saw him alone. When we did have a 
 chat, I couldn't withstand the temptation to al- 
 lude to her. 
 
 "You're in better spirits," I said; "have you 
 come across anybody from the 'other side' to 
 cheer you up?" 
 
 A suspicion of a smile flickered across his thin, 
 shrewd lips. 
 
 "No," he drawled; "no, I have met no ac- 
 quaintances in Europe yet, but " He hand-
 
 THE WOMAN WHO WISHED TO DIE 41 
 
 ed his cigar-case to me : "Won't you try a cigar, 
 sir? — but I am getting along." 
 
 I used to wish he would present me to her, but 
 he never did. Constantly those two figures sat 
 together in the Kursaal. In the concert-room, 
 or on the terrace, if I found the httle woman I 
 found Mr. Peters. Never to my knowledge did 
 she speak to anybody else. And always the girl- 
 ishness of her gaze held and mystified me — al- 
 ways, that is to say, until the end was approach- 
 ing. 
 
 Of course, I didn't know that it threatened the 
 end then, but I couldn't fail to preceive the differ- 
 ence. The curiosit}^ she had inspired in me was 
 so strong, I had watched her so intently for near- 
 ly a fortnight — oh, it may sound vulgar; I don't 
 defend myself — that the first time I glanced 
 across at her face and saw trouble there I was 
 sensible of a distinct shock. And in the next 
 few days I said it was heavy trouble. It was as 
 if the blaze within her were dwindling, as if it 
 were dying out, and leaving her cold and grey. 
 I said — it is a great word, but once I said the 
 look on her face was "terror." 
 
 I did not attach any importance to the fact 
 that Mr. Peters was sitting alone on the terrace 
 when I went to the Kursaal one evening, because 
 I supposed that he was waiting there for her to
 
 42 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 come in; it was when I found him alone in the 
 same place much later that I was surprised. You 
 know how you understand sometimes, without a 
 gesture, that a man wants you to sit down by 
 him, but doesn't want you to speak ; I knew that 
 Mr. Peters wanted me to sit down by him, and 
 didn't want me to speak. I think we must have 
 sat looking at the track of moonlight on the sea 
 for a quarter of an hour before either of us said 
 a word. 
 
 Then he remarked drily, "My friend has 
 gone." 
 
 "You must miss her," I responded. 
 
 He mused again, and handed his cigar-case to 
 me with his usual question. I said I would havfe- 
 a cigarette. 
 
 "You found me dumfounded," he resumed, 
 puffing his cigar deliberately, "by the most singu- 
 lar occurrence I have heard of in my life; I am 
 beginning to get my breath back. You may have 
 noticed the lady?" 
 
 I said that I had. 
 
 "I guess that you assume her to be a wealthy 
 woman?" 
 
 I said that I did. 
 
 "Well, sir, she is about as poor as they make 
 them. I have lived too long to be extravagant 
 with emotions, but that little lady's history has
 
 THE WOAIAN WHO WISHED TO DIE 43 
 
 just broken me up. As a writer you may find it 
 worth your attention. It was because she had 
 always been solitary; that was what started the 
 trouble — her loneliness. It's an awful thing to 
 conjecture how many poor little women in Lon- 
 don are breaking their hearts with lonehness. 
 Never a companion she had, never a pleasure. 
 INIornings she walked to her employment; even- 
 ings she walked back to where she lodged. She 
 was a girl of eighteen then, and she walked cheer- 
 fully. And she was cheerful when she was twen- 
 ty, and twenty-five, and thirty — always keeping 
 her pluck up with the thought of something 
 brighter ahead, you know; always hoping, like 
 me, for that 'good time.' " 
 
 "Go on," I said. 
 
 "When she had been clerking years, and doing 
 home work in her leisure, she had put a small sum 
 by. But she was frightened to touch it — there 
 was the growing fear of the lonely woman that 
 one day she might take sick and need that money. 
 And the 'good time' didn't come. And her youth 
 went out of her, and lines began to creep about 
 her eyes and mouth — she looked in the glass and 
 saw them — and she didn't walk to and from quite 
 so bravely now. Twenty years odd she had had 
 of drudgery, and the hopefulness was dying in 
 her. She was just faint with longing, sir. She
 
 4^ THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 wanted to put on pretty things before she was old 
 — she was starving for a taste of the sweets that 
 she was meant for." 
 
 He blew a cii'clet of smoke into the air, and 
 watched it. 
 
 "That stage passed. Seemed to the woman, 
 as time dragged on, that she hadn't the energy 
 left to long for anything. She was tired. When 
 she lay down to sleep she wasn't particulai'ly 
 keen on waking up any more. As I see the mat- 
 ter, it was by no means the work that had done 
 the damage — it was the dullness. It was the 
 emptiness of her life, the forlornness of it. By- 
 and-by she had to go to a doctor, and he talked 
 about 'depression' and 'melancholia.' He said 
 what she ought to do was to live with friends — ■ 
 she was about as friendless as Robinson Crusoe 
 before Friday turned up — he recommended her 
 to seek 'gay society'! She said she was 'much 
 obliged,' and went back to her lodging, and sat 
 staring from the window at the strangers passing 
 in the twilight. I don't know whether you have 
 struck a case of melancholia ? A man I was fond 
 of was taken that way in Buffalo. Out of busi- 
 ness he would sit brooding by the hour, with his 
 eyes wide, and never saying a word. I stayed 
 talking to him once half the night, persuading 
 him to put a change of linen in his grip and start
 
 THE WOIVIAN WHO WISHED TO DIE 45 
 
 for Europe in the morning; I told him it would 
 do him good to hustle round the stores, buying 
 most things he needed to put on, after he arrived. 
 I guess my arguments weren't so excellent as my 
 intentions — when I went down town after break- 
 fast I heard he had shot himself. Melancholia's 
 likely to be serious. . . . No, the doctor's advice 
 wasn't much use to the little woman. Her walk 
 to the office lay across some bridge. One even- 
 ing, as she was crossing it, the thought came that 
 it would be sweet if she were lying in the river 
 and heard the water singing in her ears. Then 
 she tore herself away because she had turned 
 giddy. Every morning and evening she had to 
 cross that bridge, you understand me. Every 
 morning and evening that thought pulled at her, 
 and she stopped by the parapet and looked 
 down." 
 
 In the pause he made, the music from the con- 
 cert-room was painfully distinct. They were 
 playing the "Invitation to the Valsc." 
 
 "Well, just as with the friend I lost in Buf- 
 falo," he went on quietly, "while she did her work 
 hke a machine all day, she was proposing to die. 
 She had grown so woeful tired that it was a re- 
 lief to her to think of dying. . . . You will smile 
 at what I am going to say. One afternoon she 
 saw an ordinary picture advertisement stuck on
 
 4^6 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 a wall — a picture of a Continental resort, with 
 fashionable ladies parading on the Digue. She 
 told me that — with the thought of death great in 
 her mind — she stood right there in the London 
 street, looking at it ; and, sir, her regret was that 
 she was going out of the world without once hav- 
 ing worn a pretty frock, or bought a handful of 
 roses in December! You may laugh at the idea 
 of a commonplace poster influencing a woman 
 at such a time?" 
 
 "I am not laughing," I said. 
 
 "She harped on that grievance of hers till some 
 of the interests of her girlhood stirred in her 
 again. The enthusiasm had gone, but she was 
 wistful. And she'd sit thinking. She'd sit look- 
 ing at her savings-book — all she had to show for 
 her life. She figured out that she might break 
 away from her eoiployment and have luxury for 
 a month. When the month was up she'd be des- 
 titute, but that didn't matter because, you see, 
 she was quite prepared to go to sleep in the 
 Thames. That little drudge, in that little stuffy 
 lodging, took a notion to escape for once into the 
 sunshine; she asked herself why she shouldn't 
 live for a month — before she died ! . . . . 
 
 "She was timid when she went to buy the 
 showy frocks; she touched the daintiest of them 
 lovingly, but she was shy to choose them for hcT^
 
 THE WO^IAN WHO WISHED TO DIE 47 
 
 self. She felt that she had entered the store too 
 late to wear the things she had hankered for so 
 long. She came here the day after I arrived. 
 She appeared a sad little body, sitting next to 
 me at table ; perhaps that was why I took to her 
 so; but now it just amazes me to think of the way 
 she livened up when we had grown friends. I 
 have heard her laugh, sir! I have heard her 
 laugh quite happily, though her cash was melting 
 like an ice-cream in an oven; though she had 
 come to tremble each time she changed a gold 
 piece; though she had come to shudder at each 
 sunset that brought her nearer to the End. It 
 was only this afternoon that she told me the cir- 
 cumstances ! I had seen she had anxiety, and I — ■ 
 asked questions. I looked to meet her again this 
 evening, but I got a letter instead to say I should 
 never meet her any more. When they handed 
 me her letter she had — gone." 
 
 "You don't mean she — she's dead?" I whis- 
 pered. 
 
 "Not yet," he said. "She wrote that our friend- 
 ship had helped her some ; she wrote that she was 
 going back to her old lodging, and would strug- 
 gle on. But she resigned her position, and she 
 has changed her last bank-note — how long do 
 you surmise that she will have the heart to 
 struggle?'*
 
 48 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 He lit another cigar; and among the jewelled, 
 exotic crowd we stared absently over the rail at 
 the humble flock of weary trippers who lacked 
 the shillings to come in. One may do worse than 
 cross to Ostend merely to stand by that slender 
 rail and watch the two worlds that it divides. 
 
 At last I said: "She must have liked you very 
 much : her feelings for you made her want to live 
 '. — and then, to remain here with you, she squan- 
 dered the money that she needed to keep her 
 alive!" 
 
 "It makes me feel good to hear you say so," 
 he returned. "It is not encouraging that she has 
 disappeared, knowing that she had never men- 
 tioned even the quarter where she lodged; but it 
 would be the proudest moment of my life if that 
 little lady would consent to marry me. When 
 we get up we shall say 'Good-bye' — I am starting 
 for London right away." 
 
 "Without a clue to her address?" 
 
 *'Yes, sir^ without a notion. I don't know 
 where she lodged, and I don't know where she 
 worked, and London's a mighty big city; but I 
 estimate there are about two sovereigns between 
 that woman and the river, and I have to find her 
 before they're gone." 
 
 In his glance I saw the grit that had built his 
 fortune. I tried to be hopeful.
 
 THE WOMAN WHO WISHED TO DIE 49 
 
 "If she's hunting for a situation she'll look 
 at the newspapers," I said. 
 
 "She will look at the columns that interest 
 her," he answered, "but I mayn't advertise on 
 every page." 
 
 "You can pay for inquiries." 
 
 "You may bet I'll pay; all that worries me is 
 that inquiries go slow." 
 
 "I suppose you don't know which bridge it is 
 she crosses every day?" 
 
 "We can build no hopes on the bridge," he 
 replied; "I did not interrogate her — I did not 
 suspect it was to be our last meeting." 
 
 "She may struggle longer than you think; she 
 may be brave." 
 
 "You mean it kindly," he said, "but you have 
 heard her history! I opine that I've got to dis- 
 cover that address within a week — I am racing 
 against time. There's just this in my favour, she 
 has a name to be noticed. She's called 'Joanna 
 Faed,' and I guess there can't be many women 
 called that, even in a city the size of London." 
 
 "What an extraordinary thing!" I faltered. "I 
 can give you 'Joanna Faed's' address on half a 
 hundred receipts. Why, she must be the lady 
 who typewrites my stories for me!"
 
 FRANKENSTEIN II 
 
 I WAS at the Throne Theatre to see Orlando 
 Lightfoot's comedy. Entering the buffet, in the 
 first interval, I met Orlando Lightfoot. 
 
 *'Hallo, old man!" I said. "Congratulations 
 in large quantities." 
 
 "Thanks," said the new dramatist. "Have 
 you seen it before?" 
 
 "No; but I saw in the papers that it was an 
 'emphatic success.' How beautiful Elsie Millar 
 is in the part!" 
 
 We induced one of the personages behind the 
 bar to notice that we were present, and removed 
 our glasses to a table. Orlando sighed heavily. 
 
 "What's your trouble?" I inquired. 
 
 "My 'emphatic success,' " he said. "But it's 
 too long a tale to tell you now — I suppose you 
 want to see the second act?" 
 
 The vindictiveness with which he pronounced 
 the last two words was startling. I stared at 
 
 him. "My dear Orlando " I began, but he 
 
 cut me short. 
 
 "Call me 'Frankenstein'!" he groaned. "Like 
 Frankenstein, I've constructed a monster that's 
 
 50
 
 FRANKENSTEIN II 51 
 
 destroying me. Before I created this accursed 
 comedy I was a happy man." 
 
 "It must have been a very long while before," 
 I said. "When I had the misfortune to share 
 your rooms, you used to remark casually at 
 breakfast that you wished you were dead." 
 
 "Anyone is liable to express dissatisfaction in 
 moments; but on the whole I was cheerful and 
 buoyant, especially when you were out," he in- 
 sisted. "I frequently had as much as five pounds 
 at the time. I'm not boasting; you know it's 
 true. Five pounds at the time is prosperity, if 
 a fellow hasn't got a monster to support. Since 
 I wrote the comedy, a five-pound note has been 
 as ephemeral as a postage stamp. I pinched and 
 pawned to start the monster in life. What it 
 cost me in typewriting alone would have kept me 
 for a month. It has gorged gold. It has de- 
 voured my All. And now, by a culminating 
 stroke of diabolical malice, it's breaking my 
 heart." 
 
 "There's nearly a quarter of an hour before 
 the act," I said. "Give me a cigarette and tlie 
 story — I want one badly; an appreciative editor 
 is eager to send a cheque." 
 
 "Halves?" asked the author of the "emphatic 
 
 success." 
 
 "Halves," I agreed.
 
 52 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 "Well," said Orlando, "the devil tempted me 
 in the pit of the Vaudeville one night. Elsie 
 Millar was in the cast; she had very little to do, 
 but, as usual, she did it exquisitely. I had al- 
 ways admired her, wished I knew her, and that 
 night I thought, 'By Jove, wouldn't I like to 
 vn-ite a big part for her! Wouldn't she make a 
 hit if she only got the chance !' I came out after 
 the performance imagining her in the sort of 
 part she's playing m the monster. A plot was 
 beginning to put its head round the corner, and 
 I wandered out of the Strand on to the Embank- 
 ment trying to get hold of it. The Embank- 
 ment was deserted, and the river " 
 
 "Yes," I said. "Cut that kind of thing— I can 
 put it in when I do the writing. I don't want to 
 miss any of the second act." 
 
 "Well, I went to bed about three o'clock with 
 a plot that enraptured me. When I woke up and 
 saw it in the daylight, it didn't look quite so fetch- 
 ing — as is the way of plots et cetera ; still, it had 
 good features, if it wasn't a Venus, and I curled 
 its hair, and titivated it generally, till it was fas- 
 cinating again. The dialogue was the most in- 
 teresting work — especially the love scene; I en- 
 joyed that. It was like making love to a nice 
 girl myself, and saying the right things at the 
 time instead of thinking of 'em afterwards. I
 
 FRANKENSTEIN II 53 
 
 ought to have been turning out stuff for the pa- 
 pers, but I let them sHde, and at last the play was 
 finished. It sounds as rapid as filling your pipe, 
 told like this ; when you do the story you should 
 stress the alternate ups and downs of the busi- 
 ness : the nights when I wrote epigrams and felt 
 like Pinero, and the mornings when I read 'em 
 and felt like cutting my throat. Don't forget 
 that. It's real." 
 
 "I'll remember," I said. "I'll have a para- 
 graph on it." 
 
 "Well, I had two copies of the thing type- 
 written at Miss Beck's, in Rupert Street; and 
 prett)^ they were, tied up with pink bows — till I 
 put in all the improvements I had thought of 
 after I posted to her. The improvements I had 
 thought of after I posted to her made such a 
 mess of the copies that I had to have two more 
 typewritten. However, I couldn't pretend she 
 was dear, and I paid and looked pleasant. Guile- 
 lessly, I imagined my expenses were over. 
 
 "Sonny, they were just beginning! Miss 
 Beck's bill was only the preface. A man who 
 knew the ropes told me I should be a fool to have 
 the scrip hawked about before it had been copy- 
 righted. 'How do you do it?' I said. 'Oh,' he 
 said, 'it's very easy. You give a private perform- 
 ance of the piece in a building licensed for public
 
 54) THE IVIAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 entertainments. There are a few details to be 
 observed.' When I grasped the details I knew I 
 had committed a reckless extravagance in writing 
 a play. I examined my belongings, and doubted 
 if they would run to luxuries like this. Still I 
 had constructed the monster, and it had its 
 claims. I did my duty by it. 
 
 "I hired a hall in Walthamstow for an after- 
 noon. I invented two columns of Fashions for 
 Men to pay for the hall in Walthamstow. Whip- 
 ping a tired brain, I invented them — and then 
 they fetched eighteenpence short of the rent. I 
 posted one of the nice, clean copies of the mon- 
 ster to the Lord Chamberlain to read. I didn't 
 want him to read it — especially since I had learnt 
 the compliment was to cost me guineas — but that 
 was one of the 'details to be observed.' I had to 
 pawn my watch for the Lord Chamberlain. And 
 he didn't even send the nice clean copy back — - 
 he buried it in archives. More typewriting ex- 
 penses ! After that I had to have the parts type- 
 written. My dress clothes paid for the parts. 
 Then I had to advertise for artists to read them. 
 I got my 'artists' cheap — a half-crown a head, 
 but my watch-chain went after my watch, and 
 the monster began to attack my library. 'Any 
 more "details"?' I asked. 'One or two,' said the 
 man ; 'you must have a couple of playbills print-
 
 FRANKENSTEIN II 5^ 
 
 ed, and don't forget to register your title.' Well, 
 I won't dwell on the drinks, but by the time I 
 was through with the Walthamstow hall, and 
 Stationers' Hall, the monster had left nothing 
 in my wardrobe except a mackintosh, and had 
 consumed a complete set of Thackeray bound in 
 calf!" 
 
 Orlando groaned again, and I murmured sym- 
 pathy. I also reminded him that the second act 
 must be drawing near. 
 
 "AU right!" he said testily. "Listen. The 
 monster was now my legal property — it was 
 about the only property I did have now, but any- 
 how, the monster was mine. I was informed that 
 an official licence for it would reach me in due 
 course. Admire my next move I An average in- 
 tellect might have been shattered by the sacri- 
 fices I had made for the beast; I was still bril- 
 liant. Did I send the thing to a theatre unin- 
 vited and wait six months to see it expelled? Not 
 Orlando! I reahsed that I was an outsider. I 
 realised that I needed someone to take me in. 
 Elsie Millar was playing at the St. James's then. 
 She had never heard of me, but I wrote to her; 
 I said I had written a comedy with her in my 
 mind, and that I'd like her to read it before I 
 offered it to a management." 
 
 "What for?"
 
 m THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 "'What for'? Because I thought she might 
 be so enamoured of her part that she'd move 
 mountains to get the piece produced." 
 
 "My proHx friend," I said, "I perfectly un- 
 derstand your inward reason; but what was the 
 reason you gave to the lady?" 
 
 "Oh!" said Orlando, "I borrowed from a let- 
 ter that I once knew an actress receive from a 
 full-blown dramatist; I wrote that I was 'desir- 
 ous of hearing whether she would care to play 
 the part if an opportunity arose.' Suggestive?" 
 
 "For an amateur who had never been through 
 a stage-door it was consummate impudence," I 
 admitted. "And she replied?" 
 
 "She replied that she would be pleased to read 
 the piece if I sent it to her private address. It 
 departed to her, registered, the same day. And 
 I wish you wouldn't keep interrupting me! . . . 
 Well, a fortnight went by, a fortnight of sus- 
 pense that I can't describe to you." 
 
 "I don't want you to describe it !" I exclaimed. 
 "For heaven's sake, remember that the act'll be 
 starting directly. I'll describe your feelings 
 when I write the story." 
 
 "If you don't write it better than you listen to 
 it, there's a poor show of a cheque," he com- 
 plained. "I say a fortnight went by. Then she
 
 FRANKENSTEIN II 57 
 
 wrote that she had i ead my comedy and was 'de- 
 lighted with it.' Look here! if you don't under- 
 take not to speak another word till I've finished, 
 I shan't tell you any more. Is it understood?" 
 
 I nodded. And for a speU Orlando had it all 
 his own way. 
 
 "She WTote that she was 'delighted with it/ 
 and asked me to call on her one dav about half- 
 past four. I could hardly believe my eyes. 
 Really, it looked as if the monster's rancour had 
 worn itself out. I felt tender towards the beast 
 again, my affection revived. I said that it was 
 like a monster in a fairy tale, transformed to a 
 benevolent presence by the heroine. I thought 
 that a pretty idea; I hoped I should get a chance 
 to mention it to Miss Millar when I went. 
 
 "Of course, I meant to go the next afternoon — 
 weather permitting — and I was so eager to see 
 what sort of weather it was in the morning that I 
 trembled when I pulled u]) the blind. Thank 
 Heaven! it was rairiing. I breakfasted grate- 
 fully, and my only fear was that the sun might 
 come out later on. Fortunately it didn't. The 
 drizzle continued, and all was well. Bv vour 
 idiotic expression it's evident you've forgotten 
 that the only decent garment remaining to me 
 was a mackintosh. ]My suit was socially im-
 
 58 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 possible ; if it had been a fine day I couldn't have 
 gone. 
 
 "She lives with her mother in a top flat in Chel- 
 sea. When I was shown in, she was alone. Her 
 voice was just as sweet as it was on the stage. 
 She isn't a bit like anv other actress I've met; 
 she talks rather slowly, and she's very quiet. 
 Even when she enthused about the piece she 
 spoke quietly. 
 
 " 'I think it's beautiful,' she said. 'I'm glad 
 I asked you to let me read it. I nearly didn't, 
 because ' 
 
 " 'Because you didn't know my name?' I said. 
 
 " 'Well, yes,' she said. 'So many people write 
 to one, and their pieces are generally so impos- 
 sible. Is this your first, Mr. Lightfoot?' 
 
 " 'My first, and it has threatened to be my last,' 
 I said. 'I've been copyrighting it, and the com- 
 plications have nearly ruined me. I had begun 
 to feel myself another Frankenstein with a mon- 
 ster — and then you turned the monster into a 
 prince of light, like Beauty in the fairy tale.' 
 
 "It didn't 'go' so well as I had expected, but 
 she smiled a little. 'You'll let me give you some 
 tea?' she said. 'Won't you take off your mack- 
 intosh?' 
 
 " 'No, thanks,' I said; 'it isn't very wet.' 
 
 "Then we had tea and cake, and got a bit for-
 
 FRANKENSTEIN II 59 
 
 rader. She said she wished she had a theatre to 
 produce the thing, and I said I wished I had an 
 agent to place it for me. She asked me if I'd like 
 her to show it to Alexander, and I said the Eng- 
 lish language would be inadequate to express the 
 gratitude I'd feel. Of course, I added, she 
 mustn't do all that for nothing, and she said she'd 
 find it reward enough to play the part. I said 
 'Pickles!' then, quite naturally, because she was 
 an exceedingly nice girl, and I liked her. I told 
 her she should have any share of the fees she 
 chose to ask for. 'Oh, nonsense!' she said. 'No, 
 it isn't nonsense!' I said; 'it's only fair.' 'Oh, 
 well, then,' she said, 'if I get the piece done for 
 you anywhere, you shall give me the usual agent's 
 commission. Does that satisfy you?' We were 
 talking quite chummily by this time. And I 
 had another cup of tea. 
 
 "Before I went, her mother came in. Her 
 mother didn't treat the commission so airily — her 
 mother wanted the girl to have a contract. But 
 that was all right ; I put it on paper for her when 
 I got home. 
 
 "There was nothing for me to see her about 
 again for two or three months. I had heard 
 from her that Alexander had no use for the piece, 
 and that 'Sir Charles Wyndham had promised to 
 read it on Sunday.' Then she wrote that she was
 
 60 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 going on tour — and I called to say good-bye to 
 her. There wasn't a cloud in the heavens, and 
 I was still dependent on the mackintosh, but it 
 couldn't be helped. I stayed longer that time. 
 I could have stayed to supper if it hadn't been 
 for the mackintosh ! 
 
 "Of course she went on working at the business 
 while she was away, and she used to write me 
 what she was doing about it. She was a regular 
 trump, and I liked getting her letters and an- 
 swering them, though the prospects never came 
 to anything. At last she wrote that she was com- 
 ing back — and I called to say 'how do you do' to 
 her. It still hadn't run to a new suit, and — I 
 attribute a great deal to that mackintosh ! it cur- 
 tailed all my visits, I haven't had a fair chance 
 with the girl. 
 
 "I had never loved before — so quickly; I was 
 fond of her already. I hope, when you write the 
 story, you'll bring her charm out strong; you had 
 better send the manuscript to me, and I'll put in 
 some of the things she has said — loyal, womanly 
 things, without any grease paint on 'em. As I 
 sat there that afternoon, sweltering in the infer- 
 nal mackintosh, I knew I'd like to marry her; 
 I knew that if the comedy ever caught on, I'd 
 try to make my agent my wife. 
 
 "Well, when a production looked as far off as
 
 FRANKENSTEIN II 61 
 
 Klondyke, there came this offer for the piece 
 from Cameron, who had just taken the Throne. 
 She was as excited about it as I was. 
 
 *' 'The Throne isn't quite the house I'd have 
 chosen,' she said, 'but you'll get a beautiful cast; 
 Cameron will take pains with the smallest detail, 
 
 you'll be pleased with everything Oh! I 
 
 mustn't answer for your leading lady.' 
 
 "I laughed. There was no need for me to tell 
 her I had faith in my leading lady. 
 
 " 'You have given me a chance!' she said. 'It'll 
 be the best part I ever played. If this engage- 
 ment makes me, I shall owe it to you' There 
 was one of the things without any grease paint 
 on 'em. Wasn't it sweet? She'd have had every 
 excuse for reminding me all the time what a serv- 
 ice she had done me. 
 
 "We talked it over like pals. She said that, 
 of course, Cameron would play the Colonel him- 
 self, and that he wanted to get Fairfax for the 
 lover. 
 
 " 'Who's Fairfax?' I said; 'I don't know him. 
 The lover is an important part — all that pretty 
 scene of yours in the Orchard Act will go for 
 nothing if your lover's not good.' 
 
 " 'Oh, Fairfax is a very clever young actor!' 
 she said ; 'we've never played together, but he has
 
 62 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 just made a great hit at the Imperial; I saw him 
 there; he was very good indeed.' 
 
 "Well, things couldn't have looked more prom- 
 ising. Cameron was enthusiastic — ^he didn't pay 
 any money on account, but he gave me a cigar — 
 the percentage he agreed to was satisfactory, and 
 the girl I loved considered me her benefactor. 
 Making a discount for disappointment, I hoped 
 for a hundred a week from the Throne; besides 
 that, there' d be the provincial tours, and there 
 were the American and Colonial rights. I had 
 visions of a house in Sloane Street, and a motor 
 car. 
 
 "Then the expenses began again. I couldn't 
 attend daily rehearsals through August in the 
 mackintosh, so I managed to raise a pony on the 
 agreement. The interest was iniquitous, but I 
 was bound to have decent clothes, and on the 
 threshold of a fortune I didn't fuss. I went to 
 a tailor, and I bought a two-guinea panama, and 
 had eighteen pounds left. 
 
 "Fairfax turned out to be a plain young man 
 with a big head, and I didn't think so much of his 
 reading as Miss Millar seemed to do. However, 
 he improved. She, of course, was divine, and 
 Cameron was all right. On the whole, I was sat- 
 isfied with the rehearsals — dramatically; finan- 
 cially they were a shock. The luncheon adjourn-
 
 FRANKENSTEIN II 6^ 
 
 merits upset mj^ calculations. I always had to ad- 
 journ with Cameron — though I'd rather have 
 taken Miss Millar — and Cameron lunched ex- 
 tensively. If a man stands you Bollinger one 
 day, you can't offer him Bass the next. I had 
 expected to enjoy the rehearsals, but the eighteen 
 pounds were vanishing at such a rate that I 
 thanked Providence when the last week came. 
 
 "Well, by dint of missing a rehearsal or two, I 
 had contrived to cling to a fiver; and I shook 
 hands with myself. I counted on it to keep me 
 going till I got the first fees. Vain dream! They 
 decided to 'try the piece' in Worthing for three 
 nights — and I had to pay fares and an hotel bill I 
 Old chap, when I walked here to the Throne, on 
 the night of the London production, I possessed 
 onr shilling — and that went on a drink for the 
 acting manager. In the morning I hadn't the 
 means to buy newspapers with the notices of my 
 own play. Penniless, I read them in a public 
 library among the Unemployed! 
 
 "Of course, the notices bucked me up. With 
 an 'emphatic success,' I could smile at being 
 stone-broke till the hundred a week came in. But 
 it didn't come. The box-office sheets gave me the 
 cold shivers when I saw them, and the queues 
 at the pit and gallery doors were so short that the 
 'niggers' gave up playing outside. The piece
 
 64 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 always went very well, but there was never any 
 money in the house ; the audience always looked 
 very nice, but none of them had ever paid. They 
 look very nice this evening, don't they? Paper! 
 Paper in rows! Paper in reams! 
 
 "A hundred a week? By the first Saturday 
 night I reckoned my week's royalties would 
 about cover the cost of my Worthing trip ! And 
 then I was optimistic. 
 
 "Cameron sent for me; he said: 
 
 " 'I'm afraid I must take this piece off at 
 once.' 
 
 "The dressing-room reeled. I muttered that 
 the notices had been good. 
 
 " 'It's more than the business is. Look at the 
 booking!' he said. 
 
 "I hinted feebly that the best people hadn't 
 come back to town yet. 
 
 "He said, 'Well, I'll give it a chance to pick 
 up if in the meantime you like to waive fees.' 
 
 "I waived! I heard him in a kind of stupor. 
 . . . I've never had a bob !" 
 
 Orlando paused ; his head drooped sadly. I as- 
 certained that the barmaids weren't looking, and 
 pressed his hand. 
 
 "It's hard lines," I said. "We must have an-
 
 FRANKENSTEIN II 65 
 
 other talk after the show. You won't mind my 
 bolting now? The bell rang ever so long ago; 
 the second act must be half over." 
 
 "A curse upon the second act!" he burst out. 
 *'Why did I ever write the second act? Don't 
 see it!" 
 
 "But I must see it," I urged. *'I want to see 
 it. What's the matter with it?" 
 
 The dramatist was silent again; I saw that he 
 was struggling with strong emotion. At last he 
 said in a low voice; 
 
 "The rest of the story — so far as it has gone — 
 is more painful still. Perhaps you suppose that, 
 now it had stripped me of all and involved me 
 in the meshes of a money-lender, the monster's 
 malignity was appeased? Not so! Pecuniarily 
 it could harm me no more, but through my af- 
 fections I was still vulnerable; the monster's most 
 insidious injury you've yet to hear. 
 
 "I noticed durinfr the rehearsals that Fairfax 
 was struck with Miss Millar; and lately Miss 
 Millar has shown an unaccountable interest in the 
 big-headed Fairfax. I call it 'unaccountable' 
 because Fairfax, in his proper person, can't be 
 said to account for it. She's always saying how 
 'tender he is in the part.' The part's tender! 
 I own the man can act, but I gave him the lines
 
 m THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 to speak! I invented the tender things for him 
 to do. She doesn't remember that. 
 
 "Consider what happened when I wrote the 
 piece ! I imagined a charming girl in an orchard ; 
 I imagined myself in love with her. She had 
 Elsie Millar's face; she answered me with Elsie 
 Millar's voice. With all the tenderness, all the 
 wit, all the fancy I could command I tried to 
 make this charming girl fond of me. Materially, 
 I was producing half a dozen pages of dialogue ; 
 psychologically, I was lending my own character 
 to any man who played the lover's part. 
 
 "It fell to Fairfax— and it's all 'Fairfax' with 
 her. Oh, she has been very sympathetic about 
 my failure, we're still friends, but — there's an- 
 other man now ! She talks more of his perform- 
 ance than of my comedy. It's natural, I sup- 
 pose — she understands his work better than mine 
 — but I desert the second act; you shan't see the 
 second act, the second act's the other man's 
 glamour to her! She's falling in love with the 
 part, and thinks it's with him. The monster gave 
 him his opportunity — and he^s stealing her from 
 me with my own words'/' 
 
 "Talk to her as you've talked to me," I said, 
 "and hope still." 
 
 "I can't help hoping," he answered, "but "
 
 FRANKENSTEIN II 67 
 
 An attendant entered the buffet with a note: 
 "Mr. Lightfoot, sir?" 
 
 Orlando tore it open — and passed it to me 
 mutely. I read: 
 
 "Deae Mr. Lightfoot, — I hear you are in 
 front to-night. I've been waiting to tell you 
 something all the week. Mr. Fairfax and I are 
 engaged to be married — and we owe our happi- 
 ness to your play. Will you come round after- 
 wards to let us thank you? — Yours always sin- 
 cerely, "Elsie Millar." 
 
 "Poor devil!" I exclaimed. . . . "Well, the 
 monster has finished with you now, at any ratel 
 You know that you're disappointed in love, and 
 you know that the last of the expenses is over." 
 
 "Y-e-s," he said. . . . "You think your editor 
 mil send a cheque for the story?" 
 
 "In overdue course," I told him. "Why?" 
 
 "Well," he moaned, "how am I to find the 
 money to buy her a wedding present?"
 
 THE TALE THAT WOULDN'T DO 
 
 "I CAN tell what's the matter with you'' said 
 the Bachelor Girl. "You've got a story to 
 write!" 
 
 I had merely shaken hands with her, put down 
 my hat, and chosen a chair by the fire ; so I was 
 surprised. 
 
 "My dear Sherlock Hohnes!" I exclaimed, 
 "this is wonderful. Accustomed as I am to your 
 offensive society, I must own that I fail to 
 see " 
 
 "Nothing could be plainer, my poor Watson," 
 she returned; "I have observed that you never 
 look so unhappy as when you have to do any 
 work." 
 
 Like all her deductions, the thing was marvel- 
 lously simple when she explained it. 
 
 Her baptismal name is "Patricia." She is an 
 extraordinarily nice girl, with seventeen faces. 
 She changes them while she talks. There are, 
 her moody face that is almost ugly, and her 
 hopeless face with tragedy in it, and her radiant 
 face that's bewildering — and the fourteen others. 
 
 68
 
 THE TALE THAT WOULDN'T DO 69 
 
 If she didn't laugh at orange blossoms, you might 
 approve her. 
 
 "Well, it's quite true," I answered; "I huve a 
 story to write — or, rather, I haven't a story, and 
 I'm obliged to write one. I want to find a story 
 about love; something piquant and yet tender, 
 with " 
 
 "Egj^ptian or American?" she asked sharply, 
 passing the cigarettes. 
 
 "American," I said, "but it won't prevent my 
 going on. Something piquant and yet tender, 
 with a note of pathos, and a vein of sentiment, 
 and " 
 
 "Columns of drivel!" she put in. "What do 
 you mean by coming here on a wet day and 
 babbling about sentiment? Don't you know how 
 ill it always makes me? Now, never mind your 
 story; be a good fellow and cheer me up; I 
 haven't met a man for a month.'* 
 
 '^'r7n not a 'man' — I'm married," I mentioned. 
 
 "And don't talk to me as if I were a Chiffon 
 Girl, or we shall fall out. Think I want you to 
 flirt with me?" 
 
 "I have no illusions left. Besides, I don't 
 believe you could manage to flirt. Did you ever 
 try?" 
 
 "Once." 
 
 "You don't say so! Was it a success?"
 
 70 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 "Tremendous." She nodded. "Biggest jb^ke 
 you ever heard." 
 
 "Really?" I said. "Don't get up to make the 
 tea, then. Keep where you are, and tell me 
 about it." 
 
 So she crossed her feet on the fender and told 
 me. 
 
 "There was somebody I knew," she said — 
 "Bob. That wasn't his name really, but " 
 
 "We can let him go at 'Bob,' " I agreed; 
 "there's no need to give him away." 
 
 "I was only a kid — about nineteen — just be- 
 ginning to paint. You wouldn't have known me 
 in those days; I was 'utter' — intensely 'utter' — ■ 
 to look at; I used to flop, like the Burne- Jones 
 things ; I wore garments, and my hair so!" She 
 showed me her comedy face, one of the "four- 
 teen others." "He said I was a good fellow 
 when one found me out, and told me not to make 
 a guy of myself. I'd have boxed anybody else's 
 ears, but I liked Dick." 
 
 "We re-christened him 'Bob,' " I reminded her. 
 
 "Oh, yes. Well, I've let it slip now. It 
 doesn't matter — it was no one you know. He 
 said my clothes and my slang didn't harmonise, 
 and that I was bound to change one or the other. 
 I couldn't change my slang, so I bought a human 
 frock, and he sent me a hundred Nestors as 'A
 
 THE TALE THAT WOULDN'T DO 71 
 
 Present for a Good Child.' Don't run away with 
 the idea that I was sentimental about him; we 
 were chums. He used to say the reason he took 
 to me was that I wasn't silly like a girl ; he used 
 to say I was the best pal he had. He was only 
 two or three and twenty — younger than / was, 
 in some ways. . . . The poker's your side — stir 
 the fire! 
 
 "Yes, we were awfully good pals for years. 
 When he went to work in Paris — did I tell you 
 he was an artist? — when he went to work in 
 Paris, I could have howled with loneliness. I 
 was so dull! I didn't seem to have anybody to 
 say my best things to. Have you ever missed 
 anyone like that? Something funny would come 
 into my mind, and I'd wish I could say it to him; 
 I'd think, 'Wouldn't it be lovely to be saying it 
 to Dick!' Don't you know the feeling? I don't 
 think I was ever so near to howling as when I'd 
 thought of something funny. ... I hope you do 
 understand that I wasn't sentimental? If you 
 fancy I felt anything but friendshij) for him, I 
 shan't tell you any more." 
 
 "I understand perfectly," I said. 
 
 *'0f course, we wrote to each other. But I 
 was never good at letters — and, anyhow, what's 
 the use of saying funny things if you can't hear 
 the man laugh ? He was away about a year. He
 
 72 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 had meant to stay for two or three, but one day- 
 he wrote that he was coming home sooner than 
 he had expected. He turned up the next after- 
 noon; and it was 'Dick!' and 'Pat!' and 'Well, it 
 is good to see you again !' You know ! The first 
 few minutes were jolly. Then I saw that he was 
 keeping something back. 
 
 "I said, 'What you're going to do, is to sit 
 down there and tell me all about it. You're in 
 trouble, and I want to hear.' 
 
 "'What a brick you are!' he exclaimed — a 
 man's always astonished when you notice any- 
 thing that's as plain as a pillar-box; a woman 
 would have been waiting for me to say it from 
 the moment she came into the room. 
 
 " 'Is it money?' I said. 
 
 " 'Well, in a way,' he said, 'it is money.' 
 
 "He had a small income from somewhere or 
 other, but I had known him hard up for a thick 
 'un, and I thought perhaps I might be of use. 
 I could have lent him a fiver just then without 
 any bother, as it happened ; so I asked him how 
 much he wanted. 
 
 " 'About a thousand a year,' he answered. 
 
 "Well, that told me everything and I 
 couldn't speak for a second. He was only my 
 friend, but he was such a dear, good friend, and
 
 THE TALE THAT WOULDN'T DO 73 
 
 I knew it would never be the same thing between 
 us any more. . . . 
 
 "'Who is she?' I said. 
 
 "That started him, and he gave me a catalogue 
 of her fascinations that made me tired. She was 
 a Chiffon Girl. She had gone over to Paris with 
 his sister, and been taken to see Dick's studio. 
 Tea and twaddle ! — he admitted she didn't know 
 anything about art. 'Girlish,' he called her; I 
 could imagine her in the studio — saying an art- 
 ist's work must be 'such fun/ and calling every 
 picture 'sweet' I 
 
 "By what he said, it seemed to me she was 
 treating him pretty badly, for all she was so 
 'girhsh.' She wasn't satisfied to accept him, and 
 she wasn't satisfied to let him go. Didn't want 
 to marry a poor man, but didn't want to lose his 
 admiration. For the last six months he seemed 
 to have been always bidding her an eternal fare- 
 well, and getting a note from her about nothing 
 a week afterwards. She was back in London 
 now — that was why he was here. His gush about 
 her gave me a headache. 
 
 " 'It's a treat to be able to talk it over with 
 you, Pat,' he said. 
 
 "'Yes,' I said— 'ripping!' 
 
 "He wanted to know if I thought she liked 
 him.
 
 74! THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 "Well, it was clear she liked him, though 
 whether she liked him enough to live in a fifth- 
 floor flat in West Kensington I had my doubts. 
 But she wasn't nearly good enough for him, that 
 was the main thing. I said: 
 
 " 'Even if she'll have you, are you sure that 
 you're wise to go in for marriage yet? Don't 
 think I'm speaking selfishly, old man; we shall 
 never forget we were pals, you and I, and I'll 
 drop in sometimes after you're married and 
 smoke a cigarette with you — if your wife will 
 have me — just the same. It's you I'm thinking 
 of — your own happiness. We've both such real 
 pals, Dick — I know I may talk frankly to you: 
 won't you be hampering your work? Won't you 
 have to sink your ideals, and paint "The New 
 Kitchens" and "Baby's First Rattle" to make 
 the pot boil? Are you sure the game's worth the 
 chandler's shop ? Girls are good fun at a dance, 
 or to flirt with up the river, but to settle down 
 with one of them for life, dear boy! — a fellow's 
 got to reckon up the cost!' 
 
 "Of course, he wouldn't listen — told me I was 
 a confirmed Bachelor Girl and couldn't under- 
 stand. 
 
 " 'If you'd ever been fond of anybody your- 
 self,' he said, 'you'd know that, when one really 
 loves, nothing else matters. I don't mind what
 
 THE TALE THAT WOULDN'T DO 75 
 
 I "sink," I don't mind the cost; I want Rosie — 
 she's worth all the pictures in the world.' 
 
 " 'Sh!' I said, 'don't blaspheme! And dear old 
 chap, don't think I'm. unsjTnpathetic — you asked 
 me for advice, and I gave it to you honestly, 
 that's all.' 
 
 " 'You were always a good sort, Pat,' he said. 
 'But I didn't ask you for adidce — I asked you 
 if you thought she liked me.' 
 
 " 'Oh, as far as that goes,' I said, 'I dare say 
 you could marry her if you went the right way 
 about it.' 
 
 "You should have seen him jump! 'How?' 
 
 "'So now you are asking me for advice!' I 
 said. 'Well, don't make yourself so cheap, Dick.' 
 ( It was horrid to have to tell Dick he had 'made 
 himself cheap'; I hated her for it; but it was 
 true.) 'You've run back to her every time she 
 lifted a finger. Show her you mean what you 
 say. You can offer her a home — of a kind — 
 and you've got a future, if you don't let circum- 
 stances spoil it. Very well, then. Tell her she's 
 got to marry you, or say "good-bye" to you once 
 and for all.' 
 
 "He answered that he had told her so. 
 
 "'Yes,' I said, 'repeatedly! But tell her so, 
 and stick to what you say. The next time she
 
 76 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 whistles, don't go. She'll like you twice as much 
 for it.' 
 
 "I think it surprised him to find that I under- 
 stood anything about girls ; but I was a girl my- 
 self, though he didn't seem to remember it. 
 
 "He cheered up wonderfully after that. 
 Funny my coaching him how to win her when I 
 didn't want him to, wasn't it? But he trusted 
 me, and I was bound to play straight with him: 
 I should have been a cad if I hadn't played 
 straight with him when he was trusting me. Still, 
 it was funny, you know — it makes me laugh 
 whenever I think of it." 
 
 I detected no amusement in her voice. She 
 paused a moment. 
 
 "He dropped in a few days afterwards," she 
 went on, "and told me he had done it. He told 
 me she had said she liked him very much, but 
 didn't want to marry; and that he had v^dshed 
 her 'good-bye.' 
 
 " 'Don't "come down" in a hurry this time,' 
 I said ; 'when you hear from her next week, send 
 her a few civil lines, and sit tight.' 
 
 "Of course he did hear from her — congratu- 
 lating him on getting into the Academy, and say- 
 ing she was going to see his picture on Monday 
 afternoon. And when my lady went, he wasn't 
 there. One to Dick!
 
 THE TALE THAT WOULDN'T DO 77 
 
 "It was a black Monday for me, though — I 
 had nothing but 'Rosie' all day long! 
 
 "And that was only the beginning of it. She 
 didn't make another move for two or tliree 
 months, and he thought he had lost her. He 
 weakened then. He told me he used to tramp 
 the room, thinking, half the night. His sister 
 and I were the only people who knew — and his 
 sister had gone to Pangbourne, so I got it all. 
 Rather rough on me! But I was awfully sorry 
 for him — I was sorry for him! His eyes in the 
 morning ! 
 
 "Then the girl made another step — she fished 
 for an invitation to spend a week at Pangbourne. 
 By that time he was in such a fever that he 
 wanted to propose to her again as soon as she 
 arrived, but his sister said 'No' ; she said the best 
 thing he could do was to make the girl fancy he 
 was getting over it. I don't know how much 
 trouble she had with him, but she rubbed her idea 
 in pretty thoroughly, for he came and asked me 
 to help him. 
 
 "He said, 'Alice thinks' — Alice was his sister's 
 name; he said, 'Alice thinks I ought to be down 
 there when Rosie comes, and pretend I don't 
 mind any more.' 
 
 " 'If you go at all,' I said, *that is what you 
 ought to do at first.*
 
 78 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 "He said, 'She thinks if Kosie once saw me 
 making up to somebody else, it'd be all right.' 
 
 " 'Well, I always told j^ou that you had let 
 her feel too sure of you,' I said. 
 
 " 'The only thing is,' he said, 'there's no other 
 girl there. Will you come down and see me 
 through, Pat?' 
 
 "I did flare out then! To ask me to — I mean 
 it did seem Well, it was a little too much ! 
 
 "He was all apologies in a minute. I never 
 saw a man so taken aback in all mv life. 'No 
 idea of offending me — I had been such a pal that 
 he didn't imagine I'd cut up rough.' Said he 
 had asked me as he might have asked Alice, only 
 as Alice was his sister she'd be no use. He kept 
 saying how sorry he was to have annoyed me — 
 and looked amazed! 
 
 "Well, in the end I said I'd go. If you had 
 heard him you'd understand — it was such a trifle, 
 in the way he put it, and it seemed so strange 
 of me to make a fuss. 'Oh,' I said, 'I don't care 
 — I'll go down and talk with you if you like! 
 Why not?' 
 
 "So I went. He treated Rosie beautifully — 
 a nice friendly manner that widened her eyes. 
 Blue eyes — and a dolly complexion, and flaxen 
 hair; she only needed the ticket — 'My clothes 
 take off'! But she was very pretty — nothing to
 
 THE TALE THAT WOULDN'T DO 79 
 
 find fault with, excepting that she hadn't a brain. 
 Alice had invited a man who didn't count to take 
 her in to luncheon, and Dick took me. Rosie 
 was displeased with me at luncheon. Afterwards 
 Dick showed me the garden, and I brought him 
 back with a flower in his button-hole. Rosie was 
 worried. During the evening, in the moonlight, 
 I said pensively it must be divine on the water 
 now — and Rosie looked as if she hoped I'd be 
 drowned. 
 
 "We were away about an hour. Curious — we 
 had never been on the river together before. He 
 didn't bore me too much about her; he talked 
 of his work, and mine, and — we had a lot in 
 common. ... It was about the last time we 
 really did have a talk together. 
 
 "Oh, well, he had the game in his hands from 
 the beginning! Before we had been down there 
 two days he told me they were engaged. 
 
 " 'Hurrah !' I said. 'Good luck to you, old 
 man.' 
 
 " 'You've been a trump,' he said ; 'if it hadn't 
 been for you, she might never have known her 
 own heart. I'm so grateful to you, Pat, I'd like 
 to kiss you.' 
 
 "'Oh, rats!' I said — 'I don't go in for senti- 
 ment.' "
 
 80 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 The Bachelor Girl's voice trembled. She 
 paused again. 
 
 *'I had flirted, though," she added defiantly, 
 "when Rosie was watching; and it was a great 
 joke. They were married in the autumn. I 
 never see him now, but he's selling 'The New 
 Kittens' and 'Baby's First Rattle' for big prices, 
 . . . It's time we had tea. Well, you wanted 
 to think of a tale, and you've been told one in- 
 stead. Not that it would do for you — it isn't 
 pathetic." 
 
 "It wouldn't do at all," I said, "it's very 
 humorous." 
 
 And I looked at the fire as I answered, because 
 I knew she was crying.
 
 THE LAURELS AND THE LADY 
 
 When Willy Childers was sent to the Cape, 
 he went to the last country on the face of the 
 habitable globe to which he was suited. It is 
 certainly a question whether he would have made 
 a success of life anywhere, but at the Cape he 
 was so much out of place that he became con- 
 spicuous. In Paris, when he had learnt the lan- 
 guage, he would at least have felt at home; he 
 would have drifted by slow degrees into a con- 
 genial set in London. But on the Diamond 
 Fields, a young man who hoped to be a poet, 
 and who already wrote verse, was an incongruity 
 that defies comparison. 
 
 To give him his due, he was conscious that his 
 presence was absurd there and justified the chaff 
 that it received, and he loathed the "Fields" with 
 a deeper loathing than any other member of its 
 perspiring population. But he could not go to 
 the length of altering his nature and becoming 
 brisk and enterprising, nor did he want to do 
 that. It was not with his nature, but with his 
 
 81
 
 83 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 environment that he found fault. "Lucky rhymes 
 to him were scrip and share," and he was full of 
 confidence that his "mellow metres" were going 
 to make him celebrated one day. He would 
 rather have been left in peace with plenty of sta- 
 tionery than have had the business of any broker 
 in the Market. 
 
 It was as a broker that he began. His uncle, 
 Blake Somerset, was the manager of the For- 
 tunatus Mining Company in Bultfontein; and 
 when Willy came down from Oxford, Somerset 
 wrote, to the Dulwich villa, that, "now all that 
 damned University foolishness was over, the boy 
 had better buckle to and try to make a living." 
 
 It must be conceded that Willy had not dis- 
 tinguished himself at Oxford, and displayed no 
 ability for any of the recognised professions. 
 
 All the same, the suggestion that he should 
 buckle to in South Africa sounded to him pre- 
 posterous. Dimly he had had visions of being 
 called to the Bar and obtaining pleasant cham- 
 bers where he could write poetry all day without 
 being disturbed. But he had reckoned without 
 his mother, without her faith in her brother's 
 judgment. The letter had made a strong im- 
 pression on her mind, and at the idea of its being 
 scouted she both showed temper and shed tears. 
 The lady's antecedents and sympathies were com-
 
 THE LAURELS AND THE LADY 83 
 
 mercial. She, too, had felt Brasenose to be fool- 
 ishness — indeed, she had felt the adjective which 
 she might not use; and the possession of a son 
 who seemed content to roam about the garden 
 with a book of Rossetti's, or Walter Pater's, and 
 who confessed that he didn't know the multipli- 
 cation-table, was causing her considerable dis- 
 quietude. She wondered if there had been any 
 eccentricity in the past "on poor dear Robert's 
 side." 
 
 Yes, the maternal view was different from 
 Willy's. She retracted her suggestion that he 
 should read for the Bar — it had been but a half- 
 hearted compromise when she made it — and de- 
 clared that the Cape offered far finer prospects. 
 She decided that it was just the plan "to take 
 the nonsense out of him"; and she answered her 
 brother to the effect that his nephew would sail 
 in two or three weeks' time, thoui^h she refrained 
 from explaining to him what kind of young man 
 his nephew was. 
 
 Somerset was not long in finding it out. He 
 himself looked like a farmer — or as one expects 
 a farmer to look. He had a big red face, and a 
 loud laugh, and was powerfully framed. His 
 biceps might have been a gymnast's. Willy was 
 a disappointment the moment he alighted from 
 the train, being slightly built and consumptive-
 
 84 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 looking. And he had no conception of business: 
 that was evident in their initial conversation. 
 Without a suspicion as yet of the young fellow's 
 tendencies, Somerset felt instinctively there was 
 something wrong with him. The ignorance of 
 things that he ought to have known might be 
 excused in remembering the kind of training 
 that he had had ; but there was something worse 
 than ignorance ; there seemed to be a hint of in- 
 capacity. Not only had he no ideas about mak- 
 ing money, he didn't appear interested or intelli- 
 gent in the matter — a fact which promised no 
 brilliant future for him, considering that all he 
 would have at the widow's death was three or 
 four hundi'ed a year, 
 
 Nevertheless, being responsible for his coming, 
 Blake Somerset did his best for his relative, in a 
 rough way. 
 
 "Look here," he said, after a few days, "I 
 think broking will be about your mark here, 
 youngster. You ought to earn ten or twelve 
 pounds a week at it, if you're smart. I'll take 
 you round the Market to-morrow and introduce 
 you." 
 
 Willy replied that he was much obliged. 
 
 "What do I do?" he inquired. 
 
 "Do? You sell the stones! You go into the 
 dealers' offices every morning and ask for parcels.
 
 THE LAURELS AND THE LADY 85 
 
 and then you cut about into all the other dealers* 
 and show 'em. It's a pity you don't know any« 
 thing about a diamond, but you'll soon pick a 
 smattering up. And you're always safe to say 
 'I've a nice little lot that will just suit you.' " 
 
 The description was not very attractive to the 
 Oxford man; but being already uncomfortably 
 conscious that his uncle did not think much of 
 him, he made a gallant attempt to simulate an 
 alacrity that he couldn't feel. 
 
 The introductions were duly effected, and, 
 having procured a licence, Willy embarked on 
 his career as a diamond broker without delay. 
 He was equipped with a morocco-leather satchel, 
 furnished with many pockets and designed to 
 carry all the "parcels" that were to be entrusted 
 to him. 
 
 But he did not get any. He hadn't effrontery 
 enough. When he made his applications he asked 
 as briefly as possible if there was anything for 
 him, and slunk out mortified as soon as the man 
 said "no." This though he did not fail to observe 
 that his more experienced competitors entered 
 with a cheery greeting, an air of confidence, and 
 sometimes "Such a good story! I must tell you, 
 Mr. Meyerstein !" which proved much more ef- 
 fectual. Half an hour after the Market opened 
 he had repeated his dreary formula vainlv in
 
 86 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 every doorway in the street. Then he returned 
 to his hotel, and dreamed of fame and England. 
 His uncle, hearing of his speedy withdrawal, 
 told him that it wouldn't do. If he wished to 
 succeed, he must remain on the scene and man- 
 age to look as if he were succeeding. Willy, with 
 a heavy heart, took the hint ; and from ten o'clock 
 till four henceforward, with the thermometer at 
 a hundred degrees in the shade, he bustled round 
 and round the crooked little flaring road, vaunt- 
 ing his empty satchel as if he were very busy in- 
 deed. But the pretence did not seem to impress 
 any of the dealers, who sat in their shirt-sleeves, 
 behind the wide windows, weighing diamonds in 
 lack-lustre scales; and when he called, they al- 
 ways replied that they "weren't sending any- 
 thing out this morning," just the same. 
 
 At last Somerset wrote to his sister that her 
 boy had better return to Dulwich. He said wit- 
 tily that there was "no opening on the Fields for 
 poets" — he had discovered Willy's bent by this 
 time — and warned her that living was expensive 
 there; the future Laureate wpuld loaf more 
 cheaply at home. Mrs. Childers replied that she 
 felt such surroundings to be desirable for the for- 
 mation of her son's character. He had no father, 
 and a young man who did not seem to have any 
 proper ambition would be a great responsibility
 
 THE LAURELS AND THE LADY 87 
 
 for her to cope with alone. Perhaps by-and-by 
 Blake might be able to put him into "a clerkship 
 or something" that would enable him to keep 
 himself decently? In the meanwhile, the extra 
 expense would not amount to so much as his pas- 
 sage would cost ! Somerset, who had lost all in- 
 terest in his nephew, accordingly looked about, 
 and presently contrived to obtain a post for him ; 
 and Willy went into the Magistrate's Court at 
 Du Toit's Pan, to keep the Criminal Record, 
 and take affidavits of assault and other offences, 
 at a salary of three pounds a week. 
 
 That had been two years ago; and, as if tb 
 justify his uncle's poor opinion of him, he was a 
 clerk in the same place still. 
 
 This afternoon he sat idly before his desk in 
 the sweltering office, and gazed through the bars 
 of the open window at two or three Kaffir pris- 
 oners in charge of a police serjeant, waiting till 
 their names were called. They had their backs 
 against a wall, and their feet in the thick, hot 
 dust. Through the door that communicated with 
 the shed-hke court, he could hear the droning 
 tones of the assistant magistrate disposing of the 
 case in hand. 
 
 Presently the voice of the interpreter, shouting 
 "Jan Sixpence! Piccanini! Tom Fool!" pro- 
 claimed the turn of the negroes outside. The
 
 88 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 Serjeant gave them a push, and they moved for- 
 ward apathetically, drawing their blankets closer 
 about their skinny thighs. The baking wall and 
 the glare of dust were all that was left to see. 
 Childers closed his eyes wearily — ^his sight had 
 been troubling him of late — and leant back in 
 his chair, wondering if life had any surprise in 
 store for him — if anybody else on earth was so 
 entirely wretched. 
 
 His faith in himself had deserted him by now, 
 and he no longer foresaw himself a celebrity. He 
 was very young indeed for confidence to have 
 gone, but he was not naturally self-reliant, and 
 it had been chajBPed out of him. He was sick 
 with a longing for sympathy — quite the last 
 thing attainable here. In truth, he presented one 
 of the most pathetic figures that the world dis- 
 plays, though he was regarded in the camp as 
 cutting a ludicrous one, for while he experienced 
 all the emotions of genius, his Vesuvius brought 
 forth a mouse ; he was in temperament an artist, 
 and in destiny a clerk. His verse was disgrace- 
 ful ; at times — much more rarely than he knew — 
 there was a flash of something better than grace 
 in it; but in the force to set him free from the 
 environment that crushed him it was lacking. 
 He flapped feeble wings, like Sterne's starling 
 in its cage, crying, "I can't get out!"
 
 THE LAUKELS AND THE LADY 89 
 
 The interpreter brought in the list, for the mis- 
 demeanours and sentences to be entered in the 
 record. 
 
 "Good-afternoon, Massa Childers; I'm gwine 
 home." 
 
 "Good-afternoon, Mukasa." 
 
 II 
 
 It was a quarter to five. Mr. Shepherd, the 
 assistant magistrate — a young man with a pink- 
 and-white complexion, who had grown a beard 
 in order to make himself look older — consulted 
 his watch and yawned. 
 
 "Heigho, poet!" 
 
 "Tired, sir?" 
 
 "Tired and dry. Well have a liquor as soon 
 as we shut the shop. By the bye, the mail's in." 
 
 The assistant magistrate was always among 
 the first to know Vv^hen the mail was in, being 
 engaged to a girl in England. Later on she 
 would make her home here, and cry to be back 
 in Clapham. 
 
 Childers was also interested in the arrival of 
 the mail. He had submitted his volume of poems 
 four months since to perhaps the only firm of 
 publishers left for it to go to, and it was within
 
 90 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 the bounds of possibility that there might be a 
 Une by this time conveying their "regrets." 
 
 "Are they dehvering yet?" he asked. 
 
 "I didn't hear," said Mr. Shepherd; "my let- 
 ters always come to the Club. I say, are you 
 going to the theatre to-night?" 
 
 "Not to-night. Of course I shall go some eve- 
 ning or other. But I expect all to-night's seats 
 are gone." 
 
 "No, they say there are still some left to fight 
 for at the doors. All the best ones are gone, you 
 bet — two pounds each!" 
 
 "Great Scott! Better than clerking — eh?" 
 
 "Better than trying niggers in the Pan, too," 
 said the assistant magistrate. "Did you ever see 
 her at home?" 
 
 Willy shook his head. 
 
 "Have youV 
 
 "I saw her once, yes — in my last holiday. I 
 don't know French, but I shall never forget it as 
 long as I live — no kid ! She is the greatest act- 
 ress in the world; she turns you inside out." 
 
 "I wish she played in English," said Willy, 
 fining his pipe; "she might just as well — they 
 say she speaks it fluently. Have you got a match, 
 haasr 
 
 Rose Duchene had been tempted to Kimber- 
 ley. There had been an excited rumour of her
 
 THE LAURELS AND THE LADY 91 
 
 coming the year previous, but the negotiations 
 fell through, and there was nothing better than 
 a prize-fight on the border of the Orange Free 
 State, ^^ow the famous actress had actually ar- 
 rived. The local papers had been teeming for 
 weeks with all the anecdotes of her that had been 
 worn threadbare in Paris and London a decade 
 and more ago. Her eccentricities, her extrava- 
 gance, her pet tiger-cub, and her eighty thousand 
 pounds' worth of dresses — the public read the 
 stories all over again, and enjoyed them. Such 
 of the stores as sold photographs had crowded 
 their windows with her likenesses, and the walls 
 of the corrugated-iron theatre, and the bar be- 
 side it were placarded with the name of Rosa 
 Duchene in letters five feet long. Every editor 
 on the Fields had rushed in person to interview 
 her; and this morning's Independent detailed 
 her "impressions" of the place, which she had 
 artlessly declared seemed to her to contain a 
 larger number of handsome men and pretty 
 women than any other city of its size that she had 
 seen. Even Rosa Duchcnes cannot afford to 
 neglect such "impressions." 
 
 Willy lit his pipe, and puffed at it with a sud- 
 den sense of pleasure. Yes, he would go this eve- 
 ning, if he could get in ! It would be an emotion
 
 92 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 tasted earlier than he had expected it. Did Mr. 
 Shepherd mean to go? 
 
 Ted Shepherd said that he did. The five- 
 shilHng seats were quite good enough for him, 
 and they would go together if Willy liked. He 
 glanced at his watch again, and started. 
 
 "The devil!" he exclaimed, "we've stopped five 
 minutes too long. Come on, poet, we'll go and 
 have that drink." 
 
 They picked up their wideawakes hurriedly, 
 and strolled into the Club. 
 
 The boy behind the bar had fallen asleep and 
 was dozing as peacefully as the flies allowed, for 
 work in the mines did not conclude till "sun- 
 down" and the Club was almost deserted at this 
 hour. The only members visible were a digger, 
 whose enterprise had terminated by reason of 
 exhausted capital, and a law-agent without any 
 clients, and a medical man who had many pa- 
 tients but rarely received his fees. 
 
 The civil servants had brandy-and-soda, and 
 the assistant magistrate played with the dice-box. 
 
 "I'll shake you who pays for both to-night, if 
 you like, poet," he said, 
 
 Willy nodded, and won, and ordered fresh 
 brandy-and-soda to celebrate his victory. 
 
 They had scarcely swallowed it when they be- 
 came aware of an angry mutter, mingling with
 
 THE LAURELS AND THE LADY 93 
 
 the whir of the buckets and the throbbing of en- 
 gines across the road — a clamour of impatient 
 voices. The digger, who was looking at a picture 
 of Hyde Park Corner in the Illustrated London 
 News, and wondering how long it would be be- 
 fore he saw the original again, became aware of 
 it also, and he dropped the paper with apprehen- 
 sion. 
 
 "I'm afraid that's about me,'" he said, turning 
 rather pale. 
 
 "\^Tiat's wrong, Johnny?'' asked Shepherd. 
 
 "It's the Boys, I expect I You see, I couldn't 
 pay 'em this morning; they'll go for me if they; 
 get the chance." 
 
 Willy went to the door, followed by everybodj^ 
 excepting Johnny Teale. A gang of some fifty 
 niggers, Zulus, Kaffirs, and Basutos, of all ages, 
 had surged to the foot of the stoep — a low, grav- 
 elled veranda before the club — and were demand- 
 ing their wages, or Mr. Teale's blood. 
 
 "It is the Boys," said Willy. 
 
 "I thought so. Well, tip 'em some of your 
 verses, poet, and calm 'em down!" 
 
 "Why don't you pay the beggars?" said the 
 law-agent. 
 
 "Pay 'em?" echoed the ex -lessee of the Mooi 
 Khp Mining Comj^any. "That cursed ground
 
 94. THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 hasn't yielded working expenses for weeks. Pay 
 'em? Do you think I'm the Standard Bank?"' 
 
 The doctor exhorted him to come forward, and 
 he came gingerly. His appearance was greeted 
 with loud yells, and a hundred naked arms were 
 lifted in execration and appeal. In the instinc- 
 tive way that the negroes lifted their arms, there 
 was a touch of dignity, even of tragedy, that 
 would have gladdened a London super-master's 
 heart. Presently, however, by dint of fervid 
 promises which he had no prospect of being able 
 to fulfill, Teale succeeded in inducing the posse 
 to depart. And, this consummation attained, he 
 dragged his supporters jubilantly to the bar. 
 
 Childers was not among them. He made his 
 way, through the dust and ox-wagons on the 
 Market Square, to the post-office, only to find 
 the publishers had not written; and then, retrac- 
 ing his steps, he went into his room to lie down. 
 His eyes ached badly, and he was sure that he 
 saw less clearly still. The doctor had told him 
 that the trouble was caused by his "general con- 
 dition" and advised him to rest his sight as much 
 as possible. But rest had not improved it, nor 
 had the lotion and the tonic done any good. 
 
 Soon afterwards the piercing shrieks of en- 
 gines announced that work in the mines was over 
 for the day; and now men poured up in shoals,
 
 THE LAURELS AND THE LADY 95 
 
 to wash, and dine, and to exchange — to-night — 
 their Bedford-cords for dress-suits that were rel- 
 ics of a European past. 
 
 In Kimberley, dress-suits were worn more fre- 
 quently, but Kimberley was three miles from Du 
 Toit's Pan and, by comparison, fashionable. 
 There were even men in Kimberley who wore 
 stiff collars every day. And the theatre was 
 there. Du Toit's Pan had nothing but the Club, 
 and an hotel, and a corrugated-iron church. 
 
 It was early when Childers and his chief met 
 again and drove into the larger township. But 
 a crowd had already collected under the electric 
 lamps of Main Street. And when the doors were 
 opened, and the pair at last gained seats, they 
 squeezed into them breathless. 
 
 A long procession of "carts" sped over the 
 bare connecting road in the next half -hour. The 
 "Rush" hummed with "carts." Comparatively 
 small as was the theatre, it appeared to those in it 
 to contain the population of all the camps. When 
 the orchestra came m, the house looked like a hill 
 of white arms and bosoms, and shining shirt- 
 fronts. A novel and agreeable flutter of sus- 
 pense stole through the audience ; women glanced 
 and smiled towards one another with little, ex- 
 cited nods. Many had forgotten, for the instant,
 
 96 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 where they were and, in fancy, were transported 
 to the rran9ais or the Gaiety, where they had 
 seen Duchene last. 
 
 Some touch of the excitement below communi- 
 cated itself to Childers upstairs. As the three 
 foreign knocks sounded, he leant forward eager- 
 ly. The play was JLa Dame Aux Camelias. It 
 began with a few lines between de Varville, seat- 
 ed by the mantelpiece, and Nanine, the maid. 
 Willy strained in vain to distinguish what was 
 said ; he had never read the piece, though he knew 
 the plot. 
 
 There was the entrance of Nichette ; she spoke 
 briefly to Nanine, and left. And then followed 
 an exhausting conversation between the man and 
 the girl, during which the audience suppressed 
 their impatience as best they could; few under- 
 stood more than a word here and there, though 
 many assumed an air of keen appreciation. There 
 was the peal at the bell; there was the servant's 
 exclamation, "C'est madame!" . . . 
 
 She came on in her best style — ^while the wom- 
 en caught their breath at her gown ; she affected 
 unconsciousness that an audience was criticising 
 her. But they would not have it — tliey were too 
 grateful to her. The applause broke out, vocif- 
 erous and sustained. The Diamond Fields were 
 welcoming the only important actress that had
 
 THE LAURELS AND THE LADY 9T 
 
 then come to bless them, and it was nearly a min- 
 ute before she could speak. 
 
 As the act proceeded, Childers found his throat 
 tightening queerly. The story has been as much 
 abused as any that was ever written; but sickly, 
 unhealthy, morbid, or not, it is a story that ap- 
 peals to almost every imaginative young man. It 
 fascinates him strongly as it develops; perhaps 
 he, too, may one day meet a Marguerite? In 
 secret he has often wished to do so ; and he iden- 
 tifies himself with its hero, who, on the stage, is 
 so splendid in his romance and passion, and in 
 the book, by his own confession, as arrant a cad 
 as ever escaped having his head punched. From 
 a theatrical point of view it has a greater recom- 
 mendation: it provides a leading actress with an 
 opportunity which few modern dramas equal. 
 And to-night Duchene, who had carefully select- 
 ed it for her opening performance, availed her- 
 self of the opportunity to the fullest. 
 
 She was at this time nearly forty years of age, 
 but behind the footlights she did not look a day 
 more than twenty-five. Her grace, her power, 
 the tricks — which in their apparent spontaneity 
 concealed such cleverness that it demanded a fel- 
 low-player to appreciate them as they deserved 
 — took one novice among the spectators by storm. 
 At the end of the second act he felt that he was
 
 98 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 in the presence of a revelation. During the fifth 
 act, tears rolled down his face, and he tried fur- 
 tively to hide them with his programme, afraiH 
 that Shepherd would ridicule him. 
 
 The result of Willy Childers' going to see 
 Rosa Duchene was really a foregone conclusion; 
 gun-powder had met the spark and only one 
 thing could happen,. A poet — that he was a 
 pseudo poet matters very little — who had been 
 eating his heart out on the Diamond Fields was 
 confronted, for the first time in his life, with a 
 beautiful woman who was a genius. When the 
 curtain fell and the people rose and screamed at 
 her, Willy did not scream ; he kept his seat, quiv- 
 ering hysterically. He was wrenched by the 
 death-scene that he had witnessed; the agony of 
 the lover's cry was in his own soul. He wanted 
 to walk away somewhere alone. The compan- 
 ionship of Shepherd was torture to liim, and he 
 thought that he would have given anything that 
 could be named to have the right to go to her and 
 stammer what she had made him feel. 
 
 Such exaltation sounds very absurd, but, close- 
 ly examined, it is not so absurd as it sounds. 
 After the illusion of intimate confidence that is 
 created by sympathising with a great actress 
 through the range of emotions that she represents 
 — laughing with her laughter, and grieving with
 
 THE LAURELS AND THE LADY 99 
 
 her when she grieves — one leaves the theatre hav- 
 ing seen nothing at all of her real nature. But 
 how much has one seen of the young girl's with 
 whom one may, more conventionally, fall in love 
 at a dance? Both have uttered things that were 
 not natural to them during the evening; and, to 
 say the least of it, the actress's pretence has been 
 as attractive as the girl's. One man would like 
 to take her out to supper; another would make 
 of her an ideal and an inspiration. She has 
 charmed them both; and the fact that suppers 
 may be more in her line than inspiration is ir- 
 relevant. 
 
 He escaped from Shepherd, and taking up a 
 position by the stage-door, waited there in the 
 hope of obtaining a glimpse of her when she left. 
 The hope was not fulfilled; she must have come 
 out by another exit. 
 
 The intense dry heat and the sun's blinding 
 glare had been succeeded by a faint breeze, and 
 as he drove home his mind spun more quickly for 
 its freshness, and the rapid motion of the "cart." 
 He thought again of his volume of verse at the 
 London publishers', and saw it accepted and tri- 
 umphant. An unfamiliar exhilaration throbbed 
 in his veins, and fancy mounted beyond control, 
 playing all sorts of pranks, unexpected and de- 
 lightful, till it seemed lifting him into heaven.
 
 100 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 It was only when the horses stopped that he 
 returned to reality. From |the stagna|nt pan 
 came the croaking of frogs, and the howling of 
 innumerable stray curs. The mine yawned deep- 
 ly in the night, and, with the suggestion of gigan- 
 tic gallows, the structures of the hauling gear 
 round the reef rose blackly against a luminous 
 sky. From the Club, there was the click of bil- 
 liard balls and a jingle of glasses. But he did 
 not go in. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Shepherd was the first to suspect what was 
 the matter. Probably because he saw more of 
 Childers than anybody else did ; possibly because 
 incriminating compositions on the Government 
 stationery fell under his notice. Indeed, it is said 
 that the girl at Clapham received a tribute in 
 verse from the assistant magistrate about this 
 date. Anyhow suspicion arose; and Willy's re- 
 ception of the tentative chaff was as damning as 
 plain acknowledgement — and much more com- 
 ical. Altogether it was voted the most comical 
 thing that "the poet" could have done. "Childers 
 in love," pure and simple, would have been an 
 amusing object, but Willy Childers in love with 
 Rosa Duchene was a situation that tickled Du
 
 THE LAURELS AND THE LADY 101 
 
 Toit's Pan uncontrollably. It became the fa- 
 vourite pastime to lure him into the smoking- 
 room and invent anecdotes about his enchantress. 
 He was old enough to have forgotten how to 
 blush, but he blushed still, and his face, while the 
 stories were told, supplied them with a superflu- 
 ous sauce piquante. 
 
 And cartoons were made of him, and pasted 
 on the wall. In one he sang — 
 
 "Ask nothing more of me, sweet. 
 All I can give you, I give"; 
 
 and was depicted on his knees to the actress, with 
 an ode in one hand and a child's money-box in 
 the other. Life was made in various ways a bur- 
 den to him, though no one meant any harm. 
 "Good-morning; have you been to the theatre, 
 Childers?" became the stock joke, a catch-phrase 
 with which he was greeted by everybody; and 
 when he did go to the theatre now, he slunk in 
 late, and hid himself at the back of the gallery 
 from shame. 
 
 It was when half of Duchene's season of six 
 weeks had expired that the chaff stopped; and 
 it stopped abruptly. For the first time men 
 spoke of Willy Childers in a tone of gravity. 
 One morning he had not appeared at the Magis- 
 trate's Court; hQ had sent a few lines in a pain-
 
 102 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 ful, sprawling hand, to say that his sight was 
 much worse — that he was "afraid it was serious" ; 
 and a few days after that, the news circulated 
 that he was blind. 
 
 In improving tales, when the misunderstood 
 boy loses his sight, all his acquaintances reproach 
 themselves for their cruelty towards him and 
 flock to his simple parlour to listen to him talking 
 like a tract and derive a lasting moral from the 
 patience he displays. It did not happen like that 
 in Willy Childers' case, because the men had no 
 idea that they had shown any cruelty. Except- 
 ing for Ted Shepherd, and one or two other very 
 occasional visitors, he passed his time in unbrok- 
 en solitude. 
 
 Of course it was useless for him to remain on 
 the Fields any longer. Somerset, who in a few 
 months' time was going to England for a brief 
 holiday, had arranged to take him home ; in Lon- 
 don a specialist was to be consulted, and perhaps 
 an operation might be performed. Meanwhile 
 Willy was removed to the manager's cottage on 
 the Fortunatus works. His uncle came there to 
 sleep, between the hour' of the Club's closing and 
 "sun-up" each morning; during the day a Kaffir 
 fetched his meals from the Carnarvon Hotel. He 
 had no one to talk to; he knew none of the pur- 
 suits by which the blind contrive, after years, to
 
 THE LAURELS AND THE LADY 103 
 
 occupy themselves. He could do nothing but 
 think, and compose verse in his head ; he sat help- 
 less in the blazing iron shanty, listening to the 
 clamour of machinery, throughout the day, or the 
 crooning of Kaffirs, crouched round their bon- 
 fires, when the moon rose. And in this fashion a 
 fortnight wore itself past. 
 
 Johnny Teale was the man! Others partici- 
 pated, and so were guilty — among theai Blake 
 Somerset — but Johnny Teale was the man that 
 suggested the trick; let it be stated! There was 
 a girl in the "Rush" in those days referred to as 
 "Poll Patchouli" — she had opened a shop, at the 
 back of the Diamond Market, for the sale of bad 
 scent, after she left the ladies' orchestra, with 
 which she had come from Natal. Her real name 
 was not known. She called herself "Olive Es- 
 mond," but that has nothing to do with it. She 
 was not considered pretty; she was, in fact, 
 thought very plain, even in a spot where men 
 w^ere not exacting in the matter of feminine at- 
 tractions and a little comeliness went a long way. 
 She was, however, an amusing girl, not wholly 
 uneducated ; and a fortnight after Willy's retire- 
 ment to the cottage opposite the Fortunatus tail- 
 ings-heap, it transpired that she had a singular 
 accompHshment: she could imitate Rose Duchene 
 to the life. She did it so well, according to an
 
 104. THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 enthusiast who had heard her, that she might 
 have got an engagement at Home at a music-halL 
 He said you "could have shut your eyes and 
 sworn Duchene was speaking." 
 
 It was precisely this criticism that gave John- 
 ny Teale his idea. If you could shut your eyes 
 and think Duchene was speaking, she might be 
 presented to a blind man as Duchene herself. 
 
 Some of the group to which he propounded it 
 certainly demurred. They said it would be black- 
 guardly to play tricks with Childers now and ob- 
 jected a good deal in an irresolute way. But 
 Teale set himself to argue their scruples into air. 
 For Childers to have a conversation with Polly 
 under the impression she was the actress 
 "wouldn't do the poor chap any harm," he in- 
 sisted — "on the contrary, it'd give him immense 
 pleasure." And as to the humour of the sell, it 
 would be one of the best practical jokes ever per- 
 petrated in the camp. 
 
 That was true, and a strong temptation. 
 
 Reiterating that the victim need never know; 
 that no disappointment was entailed; that the 
 scene would be no less delightful to Childers, be- 
 cause the happiness was illusory, he had his way 
 at last. And Polly was interviewed and coached. 
 A deputation went up to Kimberley to see her. 
 
 "We want you to help us in a tremendous
 
 THE LAURELS AND THE LADY 105 
 
 spoof, Polly," they said. "You've heard of 
 Willy Childers?" 
 
 No, she had not heard of him; who was he? 
 
 "Well, he thinks he's a poet, and he has lost 
 his sight, and he's in love with Duchene," ex- 
 plained Teale. "Now, we want to tell him we're 
 going to introduce him to her, and then bring 
 him to you — d'ye see? He'll make love to you 
 as violently as he knows how, and you're to pre- 
 tend to be awfully taken with him, and kid him 
 on — d'ye see? Of course you'll talk all the time 
 like Duchene, and end by vowing he's the only 
 man in the w^orld for you ! And we — two or three 
 of us — '11 be hidden about the place somewhere, 
 watching the game — d'ye see? Fow^know! D'ye 
 think you can do it?" 
 
 The girl laughed. She was not disgusted by 
 the infamous taste of the project; it struck her 
 as being an uncommonly funny one. 
 
 "You may bet all j^ou've got I can do it," she 
 said. "Rather! What a lark! When'll you 
 bring him, boys?" 
 
 "Well, it's got to be carried out carefully," 
 said Teale; "one of us must go and say that he 
 has met her ; and then, very kindly, say he'll try 
 to get permission to present Childers to her. He's 
 as green as they make 'em, but it won't do to
 
 106 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 rush the thing through as if it were as easy as or- 
 dering a drink. Say Thursday, eh?" 
 
 "Right," said Polly. "Thursday. Is he really 
 crazy for her, or just spoons?" 
 
 "Shouldn't wonder if he knelt down and kissed 
 your boots." 
 
 She threw back her head and laughed again. 
 
 "I shall enjoy this," she exclaimed. "It's 
 something I like!" 
 
 No time was lost in acquainting Willy with the 
 privilege that might be in store for him; and for 
 a moment the expressions of gratitude into which 
 he broke made the conspirators feel almost as 
 despicable as they were. 
 
 They left him in a fever of suspense for a 
 couple of days. And then he was told that Teale 
 and Ted Shepherd v/ere to take him to Duchene 
 on the following afternoon. 
 
 "I let her know you wrote poetry," said Teale; 
 "I cracked you up a lot before I asked permis- 
 sion to bring you. It wanted a bit of nerve to 
 do it, considering I'd only met her once, myself, 
 but I knew how keen on it you were !" 
 
 Willy, who was trembling, groped for his 
 hand, and pressed it. 
 
 Indeed, he could hardly realise that the be- 
 wildering thing had happened. It was actual! he 
 had to repeat it. The prospect of sitting by
 
 THE LAURELS AND THE LADY 107 
 
 Rosa Duchene and hearing her talk, though he 
 wouldn't see her, dizzied him. At night he could 
 not sleep ; and he passed the long morning pray- 
 ing to hear each hour strike on the little Ameri- 
 can clock that he had bought to let him know how 
 the time went since his watch became useless. 
 When Teale and the assistant magistrate arrived, 
 and guided him up into the "cart," the effort of 
 replying to them was pain. He thanked God 
 when he could be silent. His breathing appara- 
 tus was playing the same tricks that it had played 
 in the theatre, and the clip-clop sound of the 
 horses' hoofs seemed to be vibrating in his in- 
 side. 
 
 The hotel to which they were bound was not 
 the Queen's, where Duchene was really staying, 
 but a third-rate hotel called the Royal, and his 
 companions had misgivings lest he should detect 
 the difference. On reaching Kimberley, Teale 
 began to talk again eagerly, to distract his atten- 
 tion ; but it was taking unnecessary trouble. His 
 affliction was too recent, and his excitement too 
 great, for the dupe to have such acuteness of per- 
 ception. 
 
 The driver stopped; and Shepherd, who had 
 agreed to come, less because he looked forward 
 to being amused by the deception than because 
 he wished to see that it was not carried too far,
 
 108 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 helped the blind man down, his pink-and-white 
 complexion pinker than usual. 
 
 They were met in the hall by a Kaffir servant, 
 who had been carefully rehearsed in his part. He 
 showed his teeth in a grin of appreciation. 
 
 "Is Madame Duchene in?" said Teale. "We're 
 expected." 
 
 The negro disappeared, and after a few min- 
 utes returned to conduct them to a poor, ground 
 floor room that opened on to a stoep and a back 
 yard. At one end was a small bedstead, with a 
 washhand-stand at the foot. The rest of the fur- 
 niture consisted of a chest-of-drawers, a chintz- 
 covered couch, and a couple of basket-chairs. A 
 few coloured plates from the summer numbers of 
 the English illustrated papers had been pasted 
 on the walls. 
 
 "Madame Duchene soon come," he said re- 
 spectfully; "madame says, the haas please wait!" 
 Then he grinned more widely still, and pointed 
 to the window. Behind it, half a dozen bearded 
 faces were pressed ; half a dozen arms waved gay 
 salutes. 
 
 "Great Scott!" exclaimed Teale, as the Kaffir 
 retired. "We're in a drawing-room again, eh?" 
 He gave a soft whistle, expressive of admiration 
 and astonishment. "What do you think of this?" 
 
 "It's all right," said Shepherd, confusedly.
 
 THE LAURELS AND THE LADY 109 
 
 Teale nudged him and frowned. 
 
 " 'All right' ?" he echoed. "Well, I don't know 
 what you were used to, my lord, but it's about 
 as fine as anything I ever struck. Look at that 
 tapestry, and those bally idols over there, and — 
 why, the woman must be mad to carry such 
 things about with her!" 
 
 "What's it like?" asked Willy in a reverent 
 voice. 
 
 "It's Oriental," said Teale ; "shouldn't you call 
 it 'Oriental,' Shepherd? By Gum! I should 
 like to see her flat in Paris, if this is the sort of 
 thing she goes in for for six weeks. What's the 
 Eastern smell; don't you notice it?" 
 
 It was a pastille that had been set burning in 
 the soap-dish. He affected to explore for it 
 among countless treasures. 
 
 "This is it," he said; "in this Pagoda affair. 
 What does she keep her rooms so dark for; a bit 
 mystic, ain't it? Take care! don't move, Child- 
 ers, or you'll tumble over a tiger's head. Hullo!" 
 
 There was a woman's step in the passage, and 
 as they caught it, Willy turned a dead white. 
 The group outside, who could see but not hear, 
 puffed their cigarettes and continued to stare in 
 curiously. 
 
 "Here she is," murmured Shepherd. "Stand 
 up, boy!"
 
 110 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 Willy obeyed as the door opened; and Poll 
 Patchouli came in. 
 
 IV 
 
 "Good-afternoon^ gentlemen," she said lan- 
 guidly. "Ah, monsieur! be seated, I beg." 
 
 Her "monsieur" was the only false note, and 
 of that he was no judge. Every pulse in his 
 body leapt at her entrance; every nerve in him 
 quickened at the rustle of her cheap little frock 
 across the floor. To him it was brocade of a mys- 
 terious rose tint and there was old lace on her 
 bosom. 
 
 She sank into one of the basket-chairs, and 
 looked towards his companions for approval, 
 with her tongue in her cheek. 
 
 "I am very pleased to see you," she said; "your 
 friends have spoken about you to me." 
 
 "You see one of your most ardent admirers, 
 madame," said Teale, "and a poet. I'm afraid 
 Mr. Shepherd and I are in the way at the meet- 
 ing of two artists." 
 
 Willy lifted his hand in discomfiture. 
 
 "Don't make me absurd," he stammered; 
 "don't laugh at me, madame! I'm. not an artist, 
 I only hoped to be one. But I'm grateful — ever 
 so grateful — for your letting me come here. To
 
 THE LAURELS AND THE LADY 111 
 
 have spoken to you will be something to remem- 
 ber all my life." 
 
 The girl smiled almost as broadly as the negro 
 had done. 
 
 "You are very — very — what is the word in 
 English? — complimentary," she drawled. "You 
 must not make me vain, you know! And you 
 are too modest also — is it not, Mr. Teale? I am 
 told that your poems are quite charming." 
 
 Even Shepherd was amused; she was doing it 
 very well. The sj^ectators at the window pushed 
 against one another inquiringly. 
 
 "Will you not recite one to me?" she asked. 
 
 "Bravo," said Teale, "the very thing! Go on, 
 Childers; let madame hear something you've 
 done." 
 
 "I couldn't," said Willy. "Forgive me, ma- 
 dame; I couldn't, indeed!" 
 
 "In Paris," said Polly, "many poets recite 
 their verses to me. Yes, truly, you are too mod- 
 est, monsieur. Well, as you please; then let 
 us talk! You are fond of the theatre, eh?" 
 
 He bowed. "Passionately of late!" he an- 
 swered awkwardly. 
 
 "Aha! but he can make pretty speeches, too, 
 our modest poet. You, Mr. Teale, have not said 
 anything so nice to me. But perhaps you do 
 not feel it, either?"
 
 112 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 "Everybody raves about madame Duchene," 
 said Shepherd; "Mr. Teale and I are very hon- 
 oured to be — er — very honoured indeed." 
 
 He caught signals from the onlookers, and 
 drew Teale's attention to them. They were 
 growing impatient out there. The dialogue was 
 lost upon them, and viewed as a pantomime the 
 scene was dull. Polly saw the gestures, too, and 
 shook her fist at the crowd joyously. 
 
 *'To-night," she resumed, "I play one of my 
 favourite roles — Marguerite," 
 
 In point of fact she was mistaken: Duchene 
 was to play Frou-Frou. But Willy could not 
 read the newspapers any more. 
 
 "I've seen you in it," he said eagerly. "I was 
 at your first performance. I shall never see you 
 in it again." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 He flushed. 
 
 *'I said 'see' — I can't see you at all." 
 
 "How long have you been like this?" asked 
 the girl, deprecatingly. 
 
 "Nearly three weeks. It seems '* 
 
 *'It seems a year, I suppose? It must!" 
 
 "Yes," said Childers, "it seems much longer 
 than it is. I daresay I shall get used to it by- 
 and-by, but a day's a long time at first; I'm all 
 alone, and there's nothing to do."
 
 THE LAURELS AND THE LADY 113 
 
 ' It must be awful," she murmured. 
 
 "Mr. Childers is going Home very soon," said 
 Shepherd, "and then all of us poor beggars'U be 
 jealous of him." 
 
 "You and he maj;^ meet in London, madame," 
 added Teale. "You'll go to the theatre next 
 time madame Duchene plays in London, won't 
 you, Childers? Perhaps she'll let you call on her 
 there, too?" 
 
 Polly shifted her chair irritably. 
 
 "Will you be able to go about in London, Mr. 
 Childers?" 
 
 "I don't know many people in England," he 
 said; "I'm afraid not. I shall be in Dulwich, 
 with my mother." 
 
 "But you will make friends," she urged; 
 "won't you? You won't be tied to the house 
 always?" 
 
 "I shan't be very lively company; I don't sup- 
 pose many men'U ])e anxious to be my friends." 
 
 "Ah, well," exclaimed Teale, " 'a boy's best 
 friend is his mother!" Ain't she, madame?" 
 
 "Gentlemen," said Polly, springing up, "I'm 
 sure you two would like a cigar on the stoep! 
 Don't move, Mr. Childers. They'll come back 
 to you." 
 
 Johnny Teale stared. 
 
 "You would like a cigar on the stoep,** she
 
 114. THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 repeated. And as it was evident that she meant 
 to be obeyed, they said that it was a very kind 
 suggestion, and withdrew. Teale consoled him- 
 self with the idea that they were to be afforded 
 a view of Willy on his knees. 
 
 She did not speak for some moments after the 
 door closed. She sat in the chair that Teale had 
 vacated, with her back to the window. Her ex- 
 pression had changed and her face was quite soft. 
 
 "Are you pleased they've gone?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes," answered Willy, simply. 
 
 "So'm I. I want to talk to you — I like you. 
 Do you know, I never was so sorry for anybody 
 in the world before?" 
 
 "You make me feel almost glad I'm blind. — 
 I've prayed that I might talk to you one day. I 
 used to pray to see you, too. But that's impos- 
 sible now. That night " He paused, afraid. 
 
 "What night?" said the girl. 
 
 "Your first night here. You know, I wasn't 
 
 blind then, and Oh, it's like a dream! Is it 
 
 really you I'm telling it to?" 
 
 "It's me," said Poll Patchouli, her eyes shin- 
 ing. "And what?" 
 
 "I came away praying to be great, just to 
 have the right to meet you. I've always wanted 
 to succeed, of course — ever since I was a child; 
 but that night it was different. It was to know
 
 THE LAURELS AND THE LADY 115 
 
 you ... to hear you say you had read my verse 
 ... to feel there was a sort of — a sort of sym- 
 pathy between us. Are you laughing at me?" 
 
 She put out her hand and touched him. She 
 had given her hand to many men, but never 
 quite like that. Willy had a wild impulse to lift 
 it to his hps, but did not do so — afraid again. 
 She had hoped that he would. 
 
 "Do you like me as much as you thought you 
 were going to?" she asked, after a silence. 
 
 "Yes," said Willy; "you're just what I was 
 sure you must be." 
 
 "Really?" 
 
 "Really!" 
 
 "That's good!" she said, smearing a tear off 
 her cheek with the hand that was not resting on 
 him. "Shall you come again — I mean alone?" 
 
 "May I?" he cried. "Do you mean it? Oh, 
 but how can I — I forgot! I can't go anywhere 
 alone any more. This is the first time I've been 
 out since I lost my sight — Teale and Ted Shep- 
 herd offered to bring me." 
 
 "The beasts!" said Poll PatchouH in her 
 throat. 
 
 "If I may come again with them ?" 
 
 "No, don't do that! Where do you live? Per- 
 haps one day, as you're all by yourself, Fll come
 
 116 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 and see you. But I don't want you to talk about 
 it, if I do. I No, I never shall cornel" 
 
 "Why? Why not? I won't speak a word of 
 it to a soul if you don't wish me to ; but it would 
 be a charity — I'm sure you'd have no need to 
 mind. Oh, I'd bless you, madame! Please 1" 
 
 "Why do you like me?" she said sullenly. "You 
 must be an awful fool to like a woman you don't 
 know !" 
 
 "I do know you now,'* he faltered, shrinking. 
 "And besides " 
 
 "Besides — what?" said Polly. 
 
 "I had seen you on the stage; is that nothing?" 
 
 "Never mind the stage. Imagine you've only 
 seen me here to-day." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "You want me to come?'* 
 
 "I implore you to!" 
 
 "Oh, yes, because I'm Duchene! If I weren't 
 a great actress, you wouldn't care a button 
 whether I was sorry for you or not. Well, what 
 is the address?" 
 
 "I'm in the manager's cottage — Mr. Somer- 
 set's cottage — on the works of the Fortunatus 
 Mining Company," he gasped. "Any driver '11 
 take you to it; it's in Bultfontein." 
 
 "I know," she said. 
 
 "You know?"
 
 THE LAURELS AND THE LADY 117 
 
 "I mean I have heard the name. No, my ac- 
 quaintance with the Diamond Fields is not so 
 extensive as all that, monsieur! But I will find 
 it, and I will come." 
 
 Her accent was much more marked in the last 
 sentence than it had been a few mo:i:ents ago, 
 but its resumption was unnecessary ; the first im- 
 pression had been all-powerful, and he was drunk 
 with delight. 
 
 Indeed, when the entertainment was over, he 
 was the only one who was entirely satisfied with 
 it. Jolmny Teale and his party felt that the hoax 
 had "panned out less brilliantly than it had 
 promised"; and Polly, alone in her room, threw 
 herself on the bed and cried miserably, without 
 knowing why. 
 
 It was significant that she did not call upon 
 him for three days, though she wanted to do so 
 very much. It was significant also that, when 
 she did go, she put on her prettiest hat and frock 
 and made herself look as dainty as she could, 
 though her host would not be able to see her. 
 Her visit intensified that strange emotion to her, 
 pity for a man. And the step, once taken, she 
 went again — without vacillating. And Bad Shil-
 
 118 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 ling was despatched for meals for two from the 
 Carnarvon; and their afternoons were so pleas- 
 ant that sometimes before they parted, stars 
 were in the sky. 
 
 There was now demanded of the girl an infin- 
 itely more difficult achievement than that re- 
 quired of her at the Royal Hotel ; she found her- 
 self expected to realise, and respond to an artist's 
 aspirations. She could not do it, quite. But if 
 she simulated more comprehension of them than 
 she could feel, she did, by degrees, come to gain 
 a glimmer of the blaze within him, too. She had 
 to strain for it hard at first — so hard that she was 
 surprised at her own patience; many of his con- 
 fidences were meaningless to her, foreign. Why 
 should he await an answer from the publishers 
 with such suspense, when he didn't expect much 
 money even if they took the book? But during 
 those long afternoons and evenings, while Willy 
 talked to "Rosa Duchene" as he had never 
 thought to find himself talking to anyone, Polly 
 sat opposite him in the rocking-chair, with atten- 
 tive eyes, learning a lesson. 
 
 Once, just as she was leaving, Blake Somerset 
 came in. He had heard that his nephew was re- 
 ceiving visits from a "lady" in the cottage, and 
 guessing who the lady must be, intended to put 
 a stop to them. He was rather ashamed of him-
 
 THE LAURELS AND THE LADY 119 
 
 self for having allowed the joke to be played at 
 all, and the discovery of the lengths to which it 
 had been carried annoyed him. 
 
 Polly started in alarm, but Childers, who had 
 no cause to be embarrassed, performed what he 
 believed to be the ceremony of introduction with 
 perfect calmness. 
 
 "I don't think you have met my uncle," he 
 said; "have you? ]Mr. Somerset — inadame Du- 
 chene." 
 
 Somerset was about to answer with a brutal 
 laugh, but a gesture from the girl checked him. 
 
 When they were outside, and out of earshot, 
 she stopped and looked at him appealingly. 
 
 "Are you going to give me away?" she said. 
 "Are you going to tell him? Don't! I'm not 
 doing any harm. Please don't tell him!" 
 
 "This is damned nonsense!" exclaimed Somer- 
 set. "The boy's an ass, but you've no right to 
 have a game like this with him, you know; it 
 won't do!" 
 
 "I'm not doing any harm," she insisted, "real- 
 ly! Of course it's a beastly shame in one way, 
 but — but it does cheer him up. You must see 
 for yourself how much brighter he is. And — 
 and if you tell him, you'll break his heart." 
 
 "Rats!" said Somerset. "Don't talk such 
 piffle!"
 
 120 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 "You'll break his heart !" she flared out. "Not 
 that you'd mind much, I suppose, if you did. 
 Well, go back and do it. Go in and say, 'That 
 isn't Rosa Duchene who comes to see you ; it's a 
 girl they call "Poll Patchouli" and everybody's 
 been kidding you.' Go on! Then you won't 
 have to take him to England — because he^ll be 
 buried here before you start; and it'll be you 
 who'll have killed him, as sure as a gun!" 
 
 "D'ye mean to tell me," said Somerset blankly, 
 "that you think he'll never find out? You must 
 be as daft as he is, you little fool. . . . Oh, well, / 
 don't care; do as you like — it can't last long, 
 that's one thing! When are you coming again?" 
 
 "I'm coming to-morrow," said Polly. "And 
 if you think it all so shocking, I wonder you let 
 those swine bring him to my room. At all events, 
 I don't guy him, as you meant me to." 
 
 Then she jumped up into the "cart" and drove 
 away. And Somerset dropped into the Club and 
 told Teale that, "funny as it sounded, he believed 
 that girl was mashed on the boy" ; and the posse 
 of conspirators sat and viewed the development 
 of their plot with open mouths. 
 
 She meant her deception to conclude with the 
 actress's departure; and it was only when the 
 time came that she perceived how strange a hold 
 the deception had established on her — how much
 
 THE LAURELS AND THE LADY 121 
 
 she liked the young man who talked to her of 
 things that she had never heard talked of before. 
 The temptation was too strong to be resisted; 
 and, prompted by the fact that Duchene's season 
 had been extended for a week, she told him, when 
 she went on the morrow, that it had been extend- 
 ed for six weeks. 
 
 Childers' joy was pitiful to behold. He had 
 been happier of late, in his blindness, than he had 
 ever been when he had sight; the sudden news 
 that his paradise would endure, when the groan 
 of its closing gates was already in his soul, was 
 a relief so intense that its outcome frightened 
 her. 
 
 From the beginning she had been aware that 
 he was in love with her; but now she saw how 
 wildly he was in love, and she was aghast. Her 
 life had not accustomed her to regard sexual at- 
 traction as a serious matter. Though she had 
 not continued to view her imposture lightlj^ she 
 had not grasped the full responsibility of it till 
 then. 
 
 She gazed at him wildly, with trembling lips, 
 like a child who has smashed something. 
 
 "Are you so glad," she faltered — "so glad as 
 all that?" 
 
 The consciousness crept through her, as she 
 asked it, that she, too, was glad — not in the friv-
 
 122 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 olous way that she had thought, hut as a woman 
 is glad to remain with a man who has grown 
 dear to her. She moved slowly over to him, and 
 took his hands down from his face, and dropped 
 on her knees before him — wondering at them 
 both. 
 
 "Willy," she whispered, "say something — I 
 love you!'* 
 
 He couldn't answer. But she felt what she 
 had done. And she forgot then that the whole 
 thing was a lie — forgot what an exclamation 
 would burst from him if he could see her. It was 
 her own kisses that he was returning; it was her 
 own clasp that made him shake like that ! 
 
 The deception had gone further still, and there 
 began for the blind man a period in which he 
 tasted all the triumphant rapture of possessing 
 a beautiful and celebrated woman whom he 
 adored. When he embraced Polly, his delusion 
 gave him Rosa Duchene in his arms ; when Polly 
 clung about him it was Duchene's touch that 
 thrilled his blood and Duchene's lips that burned. 
 He lavished on Polly the madness of the passion 
 that Duchene had inspired ; he saw with his brain 
 the form of the famous woman that intoxicated 
 him, while Polly the insignificant was lying on 
 his heart. 
 
 The ecstasy of the delusion dizzied him. Rosa
 
 THE LAURELS AND THE LADY 123 
 
 Duchene was his own; visited him daily; vowed 
 she was wretched when they were apart! She, 
 a genius, renowned all the world over, discussed 
 with him the prospects of his poems' acceptance 
 and entered into his hopes and.fears! Why was 
 he a nonentity ? If only he could climb nearer to 
 worthiness ! 
 
 One afternoon, a fortnight later, when Polly 
 went to the post-office to inquire if there was any- 
 thing for him, she found that the publishers' re- 
 ply had at last arrived. She saw their name on 
 the envelope ; and a roll of manuscript, which the 
 clerk handed to her also, showed that the work 
 was declined. She took the things, almost as 
 disconsolate as her lover would be, and wondered, 
 on her way to the cottage, how she was to break 
 the news to him, how she could be gentle enough. 
 
 He had come out on the stoep to listen for her. 
 He knew where she had been, and the eagerness 
 on his face made the words that she had to speak 
 more difficult to her still. 
 
 "Dearest!" said Childers — and waited. 
 
 "There's a letter," said Polly, reluctantly; "I 
 haven't opened it yet." The rejected manuscript 
 oppressed her ; she put it down on the table with 
 her sunshade. 
 
 "From them?" 
 
 "Yes."
 
 124. THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 "Read it," he begged, breathlessly. "Read it, 
 Rosa, for Heaven's sake!" 
 
 She opened the envelope, looking not at it, but 
 at him. It was hateful that it should be she who 
 had to bring the disappointment! The colour 
 was fluttering in his cheeks, and the thin hands 
 held out towards her quivered. Suppose she told 
 
 him a fib ? Suppose she said 1 He couldn't 
 
 see the answer! As the notion flashed into her 
 mind she caught her breath ; and Willy heard her. 
 
 "They've taken it?" he exclaimed. 
 
 She was trying confusedly to discern what dif- 
 ficulties such a falsehood would entail, but his 
 question decided her — she could not crush him 
 with the truth after that ! 
 
 "Yes," she said in a low voice, "they have tak- 
 en it." 
 
 "Rosa, Rosa! Oh, my God! Read it to me! 
 What do they say?" 
 
 "They say. . . . Oh, darling, I am so glad for 
 you, so glad! Willy, aren't you happy? I told 
 you it'd be all right, now didn't I?" 
 
 "What do they say?" 
 
 "They say How can I see, if you hold me 
 
 so tight, silly boy? It's only a Hne. 'Dear Sir, 
 we shall be pleased to publish the poems you have 
 submitted. They will be . . .' What is it? 
 'They will be brought out soon.' That's all. So
 
 THE LAURELS AND THE LADY 125 
 
 — so perhaps they aren't going to pay you for 
 them; but you won't mind that, will j^ou? They'll 
 pubhsh them! And they say 'pleased.' They 
 might have said 'willing,' but they say 'pleased' !" 
 
 To her the communication that she had invent- 
 ed sounded very meagre; but she need not have 
 striven to apologise for it. To him the bare fact 
 was more than enough. They were going to 
 bring out his book. He would hold it — hug it — 
 and "soon"! He had been craving all his life, 
 and on an instant Fortune rained favours on him 
 with both hands. Balzac's expression of every 
 artist's praj^er recurred to him, "To be celebrat- 
 ed! To be loved!" He marvelled — giddy with 
 exultation — that he could be so calm in the face 
 of miracles. He was Rosa Duchene's lover and 
 now his Reveries was to be given to the world! 
 Then a frightful misgiving seized him. 
 
 "You haven't deceived me — it's true?" he 
 gasped. 
 
 "It's quite true!" cried Polly. "How could 
 you think such a thing?" 
 
 They embraced again, and he told her how 
 proud she should be of him by-and-by. 
 
 "You'll 'make' me!" he panted. "If I have 
 written these before I knew you, what shall I 
 do now? I shall be great; Rosa, I shall be great. 
 The man you love'll be known, too — you'll have
 
 126 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 done it for me. What a beautiful world we live 
 in; and it's the same world that was so ugly the 
 other day! O darling Life, it blows kisses back 
 to me ! You fill me with emotions and ideas that 
 tumble over one another. I shall pour them out 
 in my work — my mind and heart are bursting 
 sometimes, too small to hold all you make me 
 feel. I'll dedicate every book to you — ^you who'll 
 have inspired them all. Oh, thank God I'm a 
 poet ! To worship you as I do and be able to lay 
 nothing at your feet would have been torture." 
 
 He wandered about the room, with her arril 
 round him, while her troubled gaze turned from 
 time to time to the roll of manuscript on the table. 
 
 "Did you believe I was an artist when we first 
 met," he broke out again, "or was it only pity? 
 Did you feel we had something in common dif- 
 ferent from the others? Oh, how vain of me that 
 sounds ! But you loiow — you know how I mean 
 it!" 
 
 'I know," she said. 
 
 'And you did — you did feel there was a bond 
 between us? Tell me. I want so much of you, 
 dearest ! I want more, and more, and more every 
 day. I want more than I can tell you, and more 
 than the utmost. It's as if nature hadn't provid- 
 ed for such a love." 
 
 "What can I do?" 
 
 "]
 
 THE LAURELS AND THE LADY 127 
 
 "You know your thoughts before you speak 
 them ! I'm jealous of that." 
 
 "You're mad!" 
 
 He nodded. "I daresay. Nothing satisfies 
 me. But I can't see you — if you knew how I 
 strain! I'd give my right arm to see you now. 
 Turn your face up, and let me try. Great God I 
 it's a wonderful thing to be a woman — and some- 
 how it doesn't seem enough to be a man. One 
 day I'll try to tell you all I feel for you. If I 
 could do it, it'd be the finest poem ever written. 
 And what a relief!" 
 
 When she left, the moon was shining. She 
 slipped the manuscript up under her dust cloak, 
 and, reaching home, hid it away remorsefully at 
 the bottom of her box. What would be the re- 
 sult of the lie she had told? She upbraided her- 
 self bitterly for her cowardice. But now for him 
 to learn that his work was rejected would be a 
 blow unbearable! Now, whatever happened, he 
 must not know ; he would curse her I 
 
 VI 
 
 In the night the remembrance struck her that 
 she had left the note in his possession; she was 
 seized with the terror that he might show it to 
 Somerset and discover the truth with the rudest
 
 128 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 shock possible. She lay tossing restlessly, and 
 the sun had scarcely risen when she drove to 
 Bultfontein, with a face of ashes. 
 
 Willy was not visible. He was dressing, with 
 the aid of the Kaffir who attended on him. She 
 sank on to the first chair inside the door and tried 
 to gather voice to call to him. 
 
 He entered from the bedroom almost at the 
 same moment, and his appearance suggested that 
 the catastrophe had occurred. 
 
 His greeting, however, dispelled her fear. 
 
 "I've had news about my mother," he mur- 
 mured; "she's dead." 
 
 The mail carrying Childers' poems had also 
 brought a letter to Somerset. Mrs. Childers had 
 opportunely died of pneumonia — avoiding the 
 arrival of a son who had had no proper ambition, 
 and who was now blind besides. Somerset had 
 had a long talk with him the previous night, after 
 Polly's departure. The widow's death put diffi- 
 culties in the way of the young man's return to 
 England. The manager was going with the ob- 
 ject of enjoying himself; moreover in three or 
 four months he was to be back on the Fortu- 
 natus works. He had pointed out that there 
 would now be nobody to take charge of Willy in 
 London. It was an awkward thing to determine 
 what was to become of him. Seldom had a young
 
 THE LAURELS AND THE LADY 129 
 
 man who had inherited about three hundred and 
 fifty a year been such an encumbrance. 
 
 All these facts Childers imparted to Polly. 
 
 *'We haven't decided what I'm to do," he 
 went on. "I couldn't stop here permanently, 
 even if I wanted to; I'm bound to be a nuisance, 
 you see. It wouldn't be fair for a fellow like me 
 to plump himself on an uncle for life." 
 
 "Have you told him about your book?'* 
 
 "No, it wouldn't interest him — and we talked 
 about my mother's death. No, I didn't say any- 
 thing about it." 
 
 "And I wouldn't, if I were you!" she ex- 
 claimed. "I wouldn't say anything to a soul till 
 it is printed. Let it be a secret between us two 
 till the right time comes." 
 
 "That's what I thought, darling," he said; 
 "yes." 
 
 She passed the day between relief and dismay. 
 It was piteous to think of the loneliness of his 
 situation. She could not have loved him more 
 tenderly if she had been his wife; the further 
 complication that had arisen to harass her ap- 
 peared, temporarily, graver than anything else. 
 
 Willy was no less dismayed; his grief for the 
 loss of his mother was not all. He longed for 
 Duchene to propose his travelling to England by 
 the same boat as herself, to say that she would be
 
 130 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 his constant companion till they had ascertained 
 whether an operation was feasible. This way 
 out of the difficulty must have presented itself to 
 her, he thought; but she had not suggested it. 
 And for him to do so was impossible. 
 
 A little constraint crept into his conversations 
 with the girl now; and while she inwardly com- 
 mented on the difference, he was tremulously 
 waiting, in every pause, for her to make the of- 
 fer that had never entered her head. Their dream 
 might have continued in England, more deli- 
 ciously than he had ever dared to hope, and, in- 
 stead, they were to be divided entirely, by her 
 own choice! He was bitterly wounded, and not 
 even the anticipated arrival of his book — the sub- 
 ject on which he chiefly talked with her — ^was 
 potent to banish his mortification. 
 
 His allusions to his book were, indeed, often 
 perfunctory; but their effect on his listener was 
 disquieting enough. The first of the consequen- 
 ces of her lie was already at hand to worry her. 
 She repented that she had said "soon" in her 
 improvised acceptance, and wondered how soon 
 a publisher's "soon" might mean. Childers was 
 equally ignorant on the point, and in answer to 
 her nervous queries he said that the copies might 
 reach him any week. 
 
 She could do no less, after this, than pretend
 
 THE LAUHELS AND THE LADY 131 
 
 every mail day to go to the post-office to inquire 
 for them, and affect to be disappointed when she 
 informed him that nothing had come. She 
 groped, perplexed, in the labyrinth that she had 
 created, questioning helplessly how to sustain it. 
 If the truth were exposed at this stage she would 
 have done him the cruellest, the most cowardly 
 wrong imaginable, and she'd make away with 
 herself! Her only excuse for the deception was 
 that, so far, it had been successful. If the tinith 
 came out, after all, it would be the end of her: 
 she'd be like that girl in Bultfontein Road who 
 had taken carbolic acid the other day and been 
 found in a blue heap on the floor! 
 
 After each mail she gave thanks for another 
 respite. But when four mails had been delivered, 
 she feared that a longer delay would excite his 
 suspicions. And, facing the inevitable with the 
 courage of despair, she nerved herself to contem- 
 plate the boldest stroke that she had planned yet. 
 
 While she was perpending it, the prospect of 
 Willy's making the voyage with his uncle was 
 extinguished definitely. Somerset was starting 
 at once, at a couple of days' notice, for a very 
 brief trip indeed. His subordinate on the Fortu- 
 natus had been offered a better appointment, and 
 it was necessary for the manager's vacation to be 
 taken while the other was still on the works. In
 
 132 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 the circumstances, Willy would be more than 
 ever a burden. 
 
 Somerset explained that he would make time 
 to see the solicitor to the estate and endeavour to 
 arrange for the boy to be looked after in London; 
 there were always fellows going over, and he 
 could travel with someone else later on. That he 
 himself should take him was impossible. 
 
 Willy did not remonstrate. But the end of 
 the imaginary extension of Rosa's season was 
 terribly near now; Rosa Duchene, as a matter of 
 fact, was at this time at IMonte Carlo, dropping 
 some of the Diamond Fields' money at the tables; 
 and he felt hopelessly that the woman he loved 
 was fading out of his life for ever. He could 
 have cried with the pain of it. 
 
 He sat in the slip of a sitting-room the night 
 before the departure, while Somerset banged his 
 portmanteaux about and made cheerful remarks. 
 Somerset was wondering whether he should drop 
 a hint to the lad about Polly ; he decided that he 
 would ask Ted Shepherd to keep an eye on him, 
 instead. Willy was longing for him to be gone 
 — longing to be free to abandon himself, unseen, 
 to his misery. 
 
 In the morning he felt his forlornness less 
 when the sound of the "cart" wheels had died 
 away, leaving him to the mercies of Bad Shilling
 
 THE LAURELS AND THE LADY 133 
 
 for the next two months, than he had done while 
 the preparations were going forward. But the 
 consciousness that they all found him an incubus 
 was bad to bear. 
 
 His welcome to Polly when she appeared was 
 the outcome of the consciousness and alarmed 
 her. Having taken off her dust coat and hat, 
 and tried vainly to make him talk, she began to 
 prepare their tea. 
 
 At last, glancing at him, she said diffidently: 
 
 *'Has anything happened — you have not much 
 to say? What's the matter?" 
 
 "Oh, nothing particular. JNIy uncle has gone, 
 that's all." 
 
 "'Gone'? Gone where?" 
 
 "To England. It was settled two days ago; 
 didn't I mention it?" 
 
 "No," she said, "you didn't. It's strange you 
 forgot to ! . . . Then you're quite alone here now 
 — all night, too?" 
 
 "Yes," he answered; "all night, too." 
 
 But he did not say any more; and with a stare 
 of puzzlement, and her face a little paler, she 
 stood silent. The kettle had been filled, and the 
 wick of the spirit-lamp was lighted; she stood 
 waiting for the water to boil. 
 
 "It's boiling, Ilosa," said Willy; "I can hear 
 it."
 
 134 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 "I was thinking of something else," she said, 
 starting. . . . "There!" 
 
 After a moment's struggle with himself he 
 asked, "What were you thinking of?" 
 
 "What's the difference?" said the girl. 
 
 "7 was thinking, too." 
 
 "I know!" She ran to him impulsively and 
 bent over the chair. "We aren't the same to 
 each other! What is it? Tell me!" 
 
 He laughed — or sobbed: "It's you!" 
 
 "Me?" 
 
 "Oh! don't make me say it! You know as 
 well as I do that I shall be alone in this Heaven- 
 forsaken hole — that, for all one can see, I may 
 end my life in it. He's gone, and you're going. 
 Picture me sometimes — you'll always be able to 
 think of me just as you left me. That's the ad- 
 vantage of knowing a log!" 
 
 "Willy!" she cried. "What do you mean? 
 Why do you ?" 
 
 "I shall see more of Bad Shilling after you're 
 gone — if he's kind. I shall learn to look forward 
 to his remembering me and listen for his black 
 feet on the boards, as I used to listen for you. 
 Has 'anything happened'? My God!" 
 
 "Why do you talk to me hke this?" she ex- 
 claimed. "Don't you think I'm sorry enough 
 for you? You talk as if I could help it; how can
 
 THE LAURELS AND THE LADY 135 
 
 I help it? If I can, tell me the way! I'll do it. 
 
 I'd love to do it! You reproach me for noth- 
 
 • I" 
 mg! 
 
 The boy's eyebrows were raised significantly, 
 and she flung herself on him in a whirlwind. 
 
 "If I can help it, tell me the way! You shall 
 tell me. I don't know what you mean — I swear 
 I don't. I won't let you go till you tell." 
 
 "You— haven't thought?" 
 
 She shook her head vehemently. 
 
 "So why don't you say? Oh, I forgot — I was 
 shaking my head! No, no, no; I dorit know, 
 Will!" 
 
 "You'll refuse if you want to?" 
 
 "Answer! Yes, I'll refuse if I want to. An- 
 swer!" 
 
 "We — you and I — might go to England to- 
 gether." 
 
 Her clasp on his neck loosened and she lay in 
 his arms limp with dismay. Tliis, the natural 
 course in the role that she was assuming, was a 
 complication utterly unforeseen by her. 
 
 "Go together?" she gasped. 
 
 "You don't wish it?" 
 
 "Yes, yes! I do! I do! But how?" 
 
 "It'd be quite easy. Let your company go on 
 ahead, and we can follow by another boat! I've 
 thought of everything. In that drawer, there's
 
 136 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 my money — you'd take it and get our tickets to 
 Cape Town. I don't know exactly how much 
 money there is, but it's nothing like enough for 
 our passages, and when we got down to the Col- 
 ony I should wire to the lawyer, and he could 
 cable me out a hundred or two." 
 
 "Go on. Will," muttered Polly feverishly, "go 
 on!" 
 
 The blessed revelation that she was not ex- 
 pected to pay for her own passage — a thing that 
 would have been as impossible for her as to buy 
 the Kimberley Mine — had brought the colour to 
 her cheeks again. The one question that dizzied 
 her now was, how could she sustain his belief that 
 she was the actress if they travelled on a steamer 
 full of people? 
 
 "Well, when we were Home, we would go to 
 a great oculist — somebody who sits in his consult- 
 ing-room and charges a guinea a minute; some-^ 
 body with a strange manner that we don't like 
 at first, and who doesn't look like an oculist a bit, 
 but is marvellously clever, like the one in Poor 
 Miss Finch. And he'd give me back my sight — • 
 my sight! my sight! and I could see you when 
 we kiss!" 
 
 She yearned at him, pitiful and afraid. 
 
 "To think it should never have struck you! 
 Rosa, I've been breaking my heart because you
 
 THE LAURELS AND THE LADY 137 
 
 didn't suggest it; I thought you didn't care for 
 me any more, that you had grown tired. Won't 
 it be glorious? I shall see your beautiful face 
 close, at last, and it'll be you who helped me to 
 do it. Sweetest, tell me we are going! It seems 
 too wonderful to be true." 
 
 "We're going," she said. She put her hand 
 through the open window and pulled at the wa- 
 ter-bag. Roughly made of canvas, with the neck 
 of a beer-bottle inserted for a spout, it hung there 
 to render the mawkish, lukewarm water fit to 
 drink. The iciness of its contact with her fore- 
 head now cleared her brain. 
 
 VII 
 
 Compared with this new and stupendous dif- 
 ficulty, the dreaded need for meeting his demand 
 for the copies of his Reveries appeared a simple 
 matter enough. When she came next, she placed 
 a parcel on his knees with so little misgiving that 
 she was surprised at herself. 
 
 The poet gave a cry of delight. "My book! 
 It's my book!" 
 
 She told him to cut the string; but his fingers 
 shook and he couldn't manage it. 
 
 "Oh, I can't! . . . You!" 
 
 She took the penknife from him ; and then let
 
 138 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 him unfold the wrappings himself. Six volumes 
 met his touch with an electric thrill — all alike, 
 but each to be caressed apart from the others, 
 each of them lovable and delicious. How deli- 
 cate was the surface that he stroked! He was 
 holding his firstborn — and he thanked God. The 
 emotion was the true emotion, though it was con- 
 jured up by fraud; it was the bliss of ignorance, 
 but, none the less, bliss. He was holding his 
 firstborn, and Polly had given him a joy no 
 meaner than Heaven would have given had it 
 granted him the power that he fancied he had 
 displayed. Six copies of another work, and im- 
 agination were as potent as reality. 
 
 "Tell me what it's like," he whispered. 
 
 "It is," she said, "a pale, curious fawn. The 
 edges are stained a deeper shade, and the name 
 of 'William Childers' is at the bottom of the cov- 
 er, a little to the right, in dark, antique lettering." 
 
 "Let me trace it! Show me I" 
 
 She obeyed, terrified, watching his efforts 
 breathlessly. 
 
 "I can't make it out. But it looks well, eh — 
 it looks well?" 
 
 "It looks beautiful," she said. 
 
 "The paper's thin," he murmured; "I hoped 
 they'd give me better paper." 
 
 "It's thin," she confessed, remorsefully, *'but
 
 THE LAURELS AND THE LADY 139 
 
 very good looking. I think it looks more un- 
 common than if it had been thick." 
 
 "And the type — big? Is there a wide mar- 
 gm? 
 
 "There's a very wide margin," asserted Polly. 
 "Give me your finger again — there, all that is 
 margin. And the type's splendid ! I can read it 
 from here." She could; she could read: "The 
 Norman Conquest. Edward was not a vigorous 
 king; he had little authority, while " 
 
 He cuddled the book, with a long-drawn sigh 
 of content. 
 
 "Perhaps soon I shall be able to see it! Rosa, 
 when do we go — need we wait long? I'm on fire ! 
 But, oh, I'm happy, too — happy, happy! I'm 
 happier than I ever hoped to be, although I've 
 no eyes. Since I knew you my whole life has 
 changed. How can I repay you?" 
 
 Suddenly a passionate desire seized him. 
 "Read me the first poem," he prayed. "Read 
 me Sic Itur ad Astra; let me hear Rosa Duchene 
 speak my verse!" 
 
 She stood speechless. Her head was swim- 
 ming. 
 
 "Rosa!" 
 
 "Wait!" she stammered; "it's new to me. You 
 are a poet, and it's new to me. Wait till I know 
 them, Willy — I have a reputation to lose."
 
 140 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 She thanked her guiding star she had retained 
 the manuscript ; and he, his disappointment pass- 
 ing, thought how sweet was this timidity in such 
 a woman. He told her his thought, with tri- 
 umphant tenderness. She resolved that he should 
 have plenty of opportunities for the triumph in 
 future. 
 
 She had proposed that, on the journey before 
 them, she should adopt his surname. To explain 
 the unavoidable suggestion, she had urged that, 
 while Duchene's features might be familiar to 
 many, Duchene's name would be known to all 
 and entail perpetual embarrassment. In agree- 
 ing with this, he had removed her initial anxiety 
 from her mind. 
 
 Freed from it, she made the needful prepara- 
 tions with less of fright in her soul. And now, 
 since they were to go, she was sometimes eager 
 for them to be gone soon. There was the contin- 
 gency that a man might drop in on him and at 
 the final instant destroy the whole fabric of the 
 deception that she had weaved. She strove to 
 persuade herself that she might preserve her 
 lover's delusion more securely where she had only 
 strangers to fear than she could have done on 
 the Diamond Fields. But then her reason mocked 
 her for the hope. So many things might hap- 
 pen! She dared not look ahead. Alternately
 
 THE LAURELS AND THE LADY 141 
 
 she longed and trembled for the hour that was 
 to see them start. She was fighting pluckily, 
 but in moments the enormity of the undertaking 
 to which she had set her hand paralysed her, and 
 at every step she seemed called upon to vanquish 
 a further obstacle that had not been suspected 
 till it barred the way. 
 
 When the morning broke at last, her predom- 
 inant sensation was pleasure. Her own luggage 
 was ready, and while Bad Shilling went for their 
 breakfast she was busy packing the remaining 
 things of Willy's. She was still on her knees, 
 endeavouring to fasten the box, while Willy sat 
 on it, when the Boy returned. His additional 
 weight — for he was a "boy" of about forty years 
 of age, weighing twelve stones — disposed of the 
 matter; and they sat down to the coffee and 
 steaks at the untidy table gaily, reminding each 
 other that it was for the last time. 
 
 The negro had come back with a "cart"; and, 
 the meal concluded, they made haste to leave. 
 As they mounted to their seats, the doors of the 
 cottage, and of all the sheds about the works, 
 banged violently; the long, low swishing sound 
 was heard that heralded a dust-storm. In an- 
 other minute the air was dark, and they hid their 
 faces to shield them from the hissing, stinging 
 grit. Such dust-storms were of constant occur-
 
 142 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 pence, but in this one the little Hottentot driver 
 appeared to read a warning, for he lashed for- 
 ward the horses furiously. They gained the sta- 
 tion before the rain that he had foreseen began 
 to fall; but it did fall, in floods — sweeping less 
 fortunate animals off their feet; and Polly's 
 cheerfulness deserted her as she glanced back 
 into the deluge. Superstitiously she felt that the 
 adventure had opened under ominous conditions. 
 
 VIII 
 
 HovTEVER, the thirty odd hours in the train 
 were uneventful, and they reached Cape Town 
 safely. Again both were exhilarated. The com- 
 parative freshness of the atmosphere; to her, the 
 sparkle of the sea beyond the jetty; and to him, 
 the scent of it; the odour of flowers, and the 
 rustle of trees, were delicious after the desert that 
 they had left. 
 
 And he drove in a hansom again — a white 
 hansom, with a coloured di'iver truly, but a han- 
 som ! They went straight to a little inn, of which 
 Polly had heard, outside the town. It seemed 
 to her to be almost at the foot of the mountain 
 whose squareness broke off so sharply against 
 the intense blue sky; and, obtaining rooms, they 
 sat down and smiled at each other in delight.
 
 THE LAURELS AND THE LADY 143 
 
 "How clean everything feels," said Willy — 
 *'tlie towels, and the chair-covers. It's jolly." 
 
 She had been thinking so, too. Inside, it was 
 clean, and outside it was green and tranquil. The 
 road that the hostel overlooked was, at this part, 
 an avenue of firs, glinting here and there with 
 branches of the silver-leaves that are sent to Eng- 
 land as birthday cards, with stiff little views, or 
 sentiments painted on them. Presently a ]\Ialay 
 maidservant — a starched, white triangle from the 
 arm-pits down, with a bright silk fez upon her 
 head — came in with their dinner, and they tasted 
 fruit once more; not fruit as it was procurable 
 in Kunberley, but luscious peaches, and purple 
 figs, and a watermelon plucked since an hour. 
 They sat dawdhng over their coffee by the win- 
 dow while the moon rose, and now and again the 
 thrum of a banjo was borne to them on the still- 
 ness. And Childers smoked a cigarette, because 
 the situation seemed to call for one, though he 
 enjoyed it only with his fingers now. 
 
 In the morning they took one of the trains that 
 pottered between the suburbs and Cape Town, 
 and sent the cablegram to the solicitor. But they 
 were not impatient for the money to arrive. They 
 contemplated with fortitude the two or three 
 days that they would have to pass here. 
 
 When the answer came and they left the bank
 
 144 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 with a roll of notes in Polly's pocket, they went 
 to the office of the company that had a boat sail- 
 ing next, to engage their passages ; and here they 
 met with their first disappointment. All the 
 berths were booked, and it was necessary for 
 them to wait for the Union steamer, which left 
 a week later. 
 
 It was disconcerting, but it couldn't be helped- 
 After all, they were comfortable at the inn, and 
 though Childers experienced more regret than 
 Polly, he was not very seriously chagrined, ei- 
 ther. They walked home talking, for it was an 
 agreeable walk after one had passed the smell 
 of the tannery at Papendorp. He spoke of the 
 suspense in which he waited to learn how the 
 critics received Reveries — the humiliation he 
 would feel if they sneered at it. And then the 
 girl told him how the scene about them looked; 
 of the fields of arum hlies despised like butter- 
 cups in England; of the clusters of maidenhair- 
 fern fluttering in every hedge. 
 
 "Look!" she exclaimed. "Oh! I'm sorry. . . . 
 I mean how sweet this is, Will, this villa. Those 
 high cactuses — cacti, what is it? — divide us from 
 the garden, but here, at the gate, one can see in. 
 The lawn is yellow with loquat trees, and crim- 
 son with japonicas. It's all patches of colour, 
 and shadow. And it's got a perfect duck of a
 
 THE LAURELS AND THE LADY 145 
 
 stoep, and Oh, a lovely old negi'ess with 
 
 white hair, who's coming down to us! Let's go 
 on — she'd bother us to go over it, perhaps — it's 
 to let." 
 
 "We shall find a difference when we get to 
 London, shan't we?" he said. "Fancy it! Jan- 
 uary! The cold, the wet; the bustling crowds 
 in the foggy streets, and the mud-carts, slopping 
 over. What a contrast!" 
 
 "London has got suburbs, too. Dulwich, 
 where you lived, is a suburb, isn't it ? It wouldn't 
 be like that if we went to Dulwich?" 
 
 "No," he said, "we shouldn't find crowds in 
 Dulwich, because the people who live there never 
 go out; and there'd be no mud-carts, because in 
 deadly Dulwich the mud is never cleared away. 
 But its long, dreary, desolate roads aren't like 
 this one in the least." 
 
 Cape Town appeared to him, in spite of his 
 affliction, much more attractive now than it had 
 done eighteen months before, when he saw it. The 
 thought occurred to him that he might turn their 
 enforced delay to account by consulting one of 
 its medical men and obtaining a second and more 
 authoritative opinion. He mentioned the idea 
 to Polly, and she ascertained that the best man to 
 whom he could go was an Englishman — Dr. 
 Eben Drysdale.
 
 146 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 They heard very encouraging accounts of his 
 ability. Though not a specialist he had effected 
 some remarkable cures in ophthalmic cases, it waa 
 said ; and after Pollj^ had written for an appoint- 
 ment, Willy grew more and more excited at the 
 prospect of the visit. 
 
 The girl herself did not know what to desire. 
 As they mounted the steps of the house, her knees 
 knocked together. To hope the man might say 
 that no operation would succeed sounded so 
 heartless that she was ashamed to look at Willy 
 while her struggle with the hope was going on; 
 yet for his sight to be restored would mean a 
 tragedy for them both. She often ])rayed, though 
 to many it may sound improbable; and she 
 shaped an inward, irresolute prayer as they stood 
 waiting to be admitted. She said, "O God, You 
 know all about it — help me to want the thing 
 that he'll like best!'* 
 
 In appearance Dr. Drysdale was not impres- 
 sive. 
 
 When Willy had finished explaining, he said: 
 
 "Yes, yes, to be sure! And you're on your 
 way back to the old country, eh ? Well, let's see, 
 let's have a look." He put on a strange contriv- 
 ance and examined the eyes through a peephole 
 in it. . . . "And how long is it since the trouble 
 began?"
 
 THE LAURELS AND THE LADY 147 
 
 "My sight has been weak for a long while. 
 It's been getting very bad for the last eight 
 months ; and about nine weeks ago it failed alto- 
 gether. At least, I wore a shade for a few days, 
 and then " 
 
 "Yes, yes," said Dr. Drj^sdale. 
 
 "Can anything be done?" asked Polly. 
 
 The doctor pondered. "Well, I wouldn't say 
 that no one over there would advise an operation. 
 You might go to Pholett, or to Maclntyre — I 
 daresay JNIacIntjTe might do it — and it's possible 
 it might be partially successful. But . . . Your 
 husband?'* 
 
 She bowed. 
 
 "The question is whether it's good enough for 
 him to go to England on the chance. iVnyhow, 
 I shouldn't recommend him to live there." 
 
 "I don't understand," said Willy, heavily. 
 
 "It wouldn't do your lungs any good, you 
 know. Here, you've everything in your favour. 
 My ad\ace to you's to stay where you are. . • . 
 Let's tap you about a bit; you might take off 
 your coat and waistcoat . . . yes, and your shirt,, 
 too. Now then, draw a deep breath. ... 
 Again." 
 
 "My lungs aren't strong," stammered Willy. 
 "I know ; they never have been. But what you're 
 implying's news to me."
 
 148 THE JVIAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 Polly rose in consternation. 
 
 "Do you mean that he's ill, doctor — ^very iU?" 
 
 "I mean," said Dr. Drysdale, suddenly eva- 
 sive, "that I wouldn't recommend England foi* 
 him, that's all. It isn't a climate that we choose 
 when there's a tendency to any pulmonary com- 
 plaint, and — and, as your husband says, his lungs 
 aren't exactly strong." 
 
 There was a pause that lasted some time. 
 
 "We may as well go," said Childers, at last; 
 "I'm glad to have had your opinion. Good- 
 morning." 
 
 But as Polly went to the head of the stairs, he 
 turned and spoke to the doctor hurriedly on the 
 threshold. 
 
 "I want it straight, please!" he said in a low 
 voice. "If I live in England, how long shall I 
 last?" 
 
 "One can't say," said the other, deprecatingly; 
 "Nature at times " 
 
 "Roughly? I'm not a child! How long?" 
 
 "So far as I can judge, from a cursory exami- 
 nation, I should give you about two years." 
 
 "Good God! And here?" 
 
 "Here? With care, and if you avoid excite- 
 ment, you may live for ten. JMore! But you 
 must avoid excitement, mind!"
 
 THE LAURELS AND THE LADY 149 
 
 The girl was coming back, eager to miss noth- 
 ing; Willy heard the frou-frou of her skirt. 
 
 *'If I can't avoid excitement," he questioned, 
 desperately — "if that's impossible?" 
 
 The doctor shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "you won't live so long." 
 
 IX 
 
 Willy and Poll Patchouli left the house 
 silently. She could not express her comprehen- 
 sion in words, and she loathed the passers-bj^ that 
 prevented her taking him to her heart. To him 
 the shock was awful. Now he knew the meaning 
 of various sensations that he had set down to 
 "lassitude" and "depression"! 
 
 She squeezed the hand that rested on her arm. 
 
 "My poor boy!" she said. 
 
 "It's — it's rather hard lines, isn't it?" 
 
 She noted absently the brutal blue of the sky, 
 the fierceness with which the bay sparkled. The 
 noise of a little traffic in the road was deafening. 
 
 "You must stop in Cape Town and get well," 
 she murmured. . . . "Are we going back by 
 train?" 
 
 "Yes," he said, drearily. ... "I suppose so." 
 
 His thought was, not that his sight was lost for 
 ever; not that England would never now be any-
 
 150 THE ]\iAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 thing to him but a memory It was, that she 
 and he must separate. She would go — perhaps 
 a little later than they were to have gone to- 
 gether; perhaps much later. But she would go! 
 
 "It seems that it was fated," he said, 
 
 "What was fated?" 
 
 He had taken it for granted that she must be 
 thinking of the same thing. But she was sufFer- 
 ing with her own identity and had not remem- 
 bered to view the situation as Duchene. 
 
 "Why, that you were to leave me out here, 
 after all." 
 
 "Leave you?" Then realising the position, she 
 was staggered. Would Duchene leave him? Or 
 would she stay, regardless of everything else? 
 She didn't know! It looked to her impossible 
 that Bosa Duchene would renounce her career 
 and become the jest of Europe, in order to re- 
 main with Willy in Cape Town. . . . But 
 mightn't it look impossible because Rosa Duchene 
 was nothing but a great name to her? She was 
 a woman, too. If a great woman loved him just 
 as much, wouldn't she now be suffering just as 
 much — wouldn't she ache to stay with him just 
 as much as she herself was aching? ... It was 
 so difficult! "We must think about it," she said. 
 
 Would consent entail discovery — or was his 
 belief in the actress's devotion equal to accept-
 
 THE LAURELS AND THE LADY 151 
 
 ing such a sacrifice without suspicion? As the 
 train bore them homeward, she sat staring from 
 the window, asking herself the question. She 
 was now gi-ateful for the presence of strangers; 
 she did not want to speak. 
 
 On the platform Willy exclaimed: 
 
 "What do I care — we'll go together all the 
 same! I'd rather be with you and die, Rosa, 
 than be left alone and live. Don't let's think 
 about it any more; we'll go as we'd arranged!" 
 
 "Are you mad?" she cried. 
 
 He persisted, but she would not listen to him. 
 And all the afternoon she waited — trying to per- 
 ceive whether he was ready to receive the sug- 
 gestion that she craved to make. 
 
 During the evening both were very quiet. She 
 had wheeled her armchair to the sofa where he 
 lay, and stooped from time to time to kiss him. 
 But her sympathy seemed empty to him without 
 the words that he was yearning to hear; and to 
 herself, till the words were spoken, the caresses 
 that she could not restrain seemed almost an in- 
 sult. 
 
 "When shall you sail?" he asked, breaking a 
 long silence. 
 
 "When you are tired of me," she answered. 
 
 "Ah! You'll go before then!" 
 
 "Really?"
 
 152 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 Coquetry appeared heartless to him. He won- 
 dered at her. 
 
 "For the first time I wish you were a nobody; 
 I've been too vain, perhaps, of being loved by 
 Rosa Duchene. Now I'm punished for it — it's 
 your position that comes between us. Her lover, 
 or her career — ^what woman would hesitate?" 
 
 He did not know it, but in his tone was the 
 reproach that was her clue. She shivered with 
 joy before she spoke. 
 
 *'I can't tell you what woman would hesitate," 
 she said, with a laugh. 
 
 "What do you mean?" he faltered. 
 
 "Supi^osing " she said, twisting a piece of 
 
 his hair round her finger. 
 
 "'Supposing'?" he echoed, breathlessly. 
 
 "Supposing that once upon a time there was 
 an actress who came to South Africa and met a 
 man she was fool enough to like very much — to 
 love very much — to love as I love you! Suppose 
 they had meant to go to London together, and 
 then, — one morning, learnt that the boy was too 
 ill — that the woman must give up everything to 
 stay with him, or go away alone and give up 
 him? If through that first dreadful day she 
 wasn't able to decide — if just at first she did hesi- 
 tate; if she tried to stamp her love out, only to 
 find that it was worth more to her than the stage,
 
 THE LAURELS AND THE LADY 153 
 
 than her Paris, than her hf e ; if she cried to him^ 
 *Willy, I'm ashamed! Forgive me, and let me 
 stop!' — what do you think the man would say?" 
 
 "Rosa!" he gasped. 
 
 "I love you! I love you! I love you!" she mut- 
 tered, straining him to her. 
 
 "You won't have so long to wait as you think 
 — I shan't last more than three or four years, 
 even here!" 
 
 "You shall live for ever," she swore; "you shall 
 be immortal!" 
 
 They went, the following day, to view the lit- 
 tle house that had delighted her so much. It was 
 to be let furnished, and the old, white-haired 
 negress that she had seen in the garden was pre- 
 pared to remain as servant. The^/ settled to take 
 it then and there ; and less than a week later they 
 were installed. 
 
 The afternoon that they moved in, Polly went 
 into town alone. She explained that there was 
 something she wanted to buy — a shade for the 
 parlour lamp ; and Willy, who was vividly inter- 
 ested in the arrangement of their home although 
 he could not see it, said, "Let it be a pretty 
 colour, darling, something that'll make the room 
 nice to look at in the evening!" 
 
 She left him on the stoey, where she would see 
 him at the moment she reached the gate on her
 
 154j the man who UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 return. But when her purchase was made, she, 
 did not hasten to rejoin him there. She turned 
 up Adderley Street, instead, into an avenue. 
 Near the foot there was a big building. It was 
 the PubHc Library, and she entered it. 
 
 "Please," she said nervously to a gentleman 
 who was standing behind the counter, "I want 
 a criticism of a book of poems. It doesn't mat- 
 ter who wrote them, but they must be fine poems, 
 and the critic must say that the poet's a genius. 
 . . . Could you help me?" 
 
 The gentleman was taken aback. 
 
 "What kind of poet?" he inquired. "There 
 have been many fine poets. . . . Do you mean a 
 poet who is still living?" 
 
 "I really don't mind at all whether he's living 
 or dead," said Polly, impartially, "so long as he's 
 good enough." 
 
 "Well, we have just received a work that might 
 suit you. . . . How would this do?" He handed 
 her "Victorian Poets," by Stedman. "If you go 
 into the reading-room you can look through it." 
 
 She clutched the fat green volume thankfully ; 
 and, taking a chair at one of the tables where 
 there were pens and ink, hurriedly skimmed the 
 contents. 
 
 The names looked promising. Tennyson, 
 Browning, Swinburne — a host met her eye, in-
 
 THE LAURELS AND THE LADY 155 
 
 eluding dozens of whom she had never heard. 
 To her impatience, however, it soon seemed that 
 the author found more faults than merits in even 
 the best of them; nowhere could she come across 
 exactly what she sought. 
 
 At last, after iniinite pains, she selected a lot 
 of appreciative paragraphs and managed to 
 dovetail them into a fairly consistent whole. But 
 a panegyric on Byron, which she saw too late 
 for it to be inserted satisfactorily, without her 
 omitting a eulogy of Keats, detracted from her 
 satisfaction. 
 
 "I'm very much obliged/* she said to the li- 
 brarian. 
 
 "Did you find what you wanted?" he asked 
 curiously. 
 
 "Yes, thank you," she said; "at least, it'll do 
 to go on with. But I shall often have to come 
 again." 
 
 She now proceeded to the station, and she 
 reached the garden as the sun was setting. Willy 
 was still where she had left him. In her hand was 
 a copy of a London paper — a paper that he had 
 often referred to with awe and anticipation. She 
 put her sheet of foolscap on the rustic table, and 
 gave him the paper. 
 
 "Sweetheart," she said, "I've brought you your 
 first review I"
 
 156 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 He turned very pale ; his voice was tremulous : 
 ''What do they say? What's it in?" 
 She told him the paper's name. "I'll read it 
 to you." 
 
 She took a seat by the table, and read. 
 " 'The minor poetry of the last few years,' she 
 began, 'is of a strangely composite order. We 
 can see that the long-popular Browning at 
 length has become a potent force as the pioneer 
 of a half-dramatic, half psychological method, 
 whose adherents seek a change from the idyllic 
 repose of Tennyson and his followers. With this 
 intent, and with a strong leaning towards the art 
 studies and convictions of the Rossetti group, a 
 Neo-Romantic School has arisen, in which Mr. 
 William Childers, whose Reveries is now under 
 our consideration, leaps at a bound into the fore- 
 most place. His songs resemble those of Ros- 
 setti in terseness and beauty, while with Brown- 
 ing they escape at times to that stronghold 
 whither science and materialism are not prepared 
 to follow. Art so complex as Mr. Childers' was 
 not possible until centuries of literature had 
 passed, and an artist could overlook the field, 
 essay each style, and evolve a metrical result 
 which should be to that of earlier periods what 
 the music of Meyerbeer and Rossini is to the nar- 
 rower range of Piccini or Gluck. All must ac-
 
 THE LAURELS AND THE LADY 157 
 
 knowledge that Sic Itur ad Astra is perfect of its 
 kind. Take this and that exquisite ode, To a 
 Memory, or My Soul and I! We call them 
 poetry ; poetry of the lasting sort, and attractive 
 to successive generations. We believe that they 
 will be read when many years have passed away; 
 that they will be picked out and treasured by 
 future compilers.' " 
 
 She paused, that he might breathe. Half an 
 acre of Heaven had fallen into the Rondebosch 
 garden and its glory was flooding him. 
 
 After a few seconds she bent again over her 
 manuscript and read on, for several minutes, to 
 the end. 
 
 When she had finished they did not speak. She 
 lay her head on his breast, while his soul uttered 
 thanksgiving on the heights to which her lie had 
 lifted him. He had touched the pinnacle. He 
 was thrilled with an intenser joy than comes to 
 one man among millions — a joy so vast that few 
 of us have the imagination to conceive it. 
 
 ;;Happy?" 
 
 " 'Happy' ? You, and Fame ! Could life give 
 any more?" 
 
 The brief Cape tv/ilight was beginning to fall, 
 and she guided him inside. She led him into a 
 chair, and kissed him — his lips, and his sightless 
 eyes.
 
 158 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 "Your chair in our home," she murmured. 
 
 *'Oh, and the lamp-shade! Here it is." 
 "What colour did you choose, Rosa?" 
 "It's couleur de roseT said Polly. And she 
 
 put it on. 
 
 Some months later, on the border of Mowbray 
 and Rondebosch, there lingered, in the last 
 weeks of his life, a famous poet. He had never 
 spoken with his publishers, but from time to time 
 they wrote to him — in terms of respectful ad- 
 miration; and then the celebrated actress, who 
 shared his exile and acted as his amanuensis, 
 read their letters to him, and cashed the very 
 small drafts that they apologetically enclosed. 
 At the primitive shops from which the villa was 
 supplied, its tenants were known as "Mr. and 
 Mrs. Childers." But as they had not been seen 
 at church, none of the neighbours had called on 
 them, nor, in fact, did anyone suspect their great 
 importance; and as the poet, being blind, was 
 always attended by the actress, he made no ac- 
 quaintance when he was out. He had just pub- 
 lished his second work, which had enhanced the 
 reputation won by his first. The volumes were 
 beloved belongings ; from the shelf on which they 
 were kept he often took them down and fondled 
 them. To a stranger, parting the expensive
 
 THE LAURELS AND THE LADY 159 
 
 covers, the contents might have been startling in 
 view of so much pride; he might, indeed, have 
 been pardoned the impression that he was look- 
 ing at Mavor's Spelling Book, and a child's His- 
 tory of England; but the poet held them with 
 rejoicing. To clasp them was rapture, second 
 only to clasping his companion — a plain young 
 woman whom he addressed by another woman's 
 name, and passionately believed most beautiful.
 
 THE CHILD IN THE GARDEN 
 
 When he reached the village of Thergrimabes 
 at last — and after Athens the journey had been 
 extremely trying — the curate gathered that Miss 
 Netterville was out. As it was six months since 
 they had met, and he had written to her that he 
 was coming, her fiance was vexed. 
 
 The innkeeper had laid eager hands on the 
 portmanteau, and the traveller signed to him 
 imperatively to put it down. "No, no," he 
 exclaimed. "I must sleep somewhere else — if 
 there's another inn to be found in the hole!" 
 He remembered that it was useless to inquire for 
 one in English. "Upon my word," his thoughts 
 ran, "it's most annoying! Of course, we can't 
 both lodge in the same house, and none of these 
 peasants will understand a word I say. How 
 very tiresome, to be sure! Really, it's most in- 
 considerate of Gertrude to be out when I arrive. 
 I shall have to be very firm with her; I see that 
 I shall have to speak even more strongly than I 
 intended." 
 
 It was midday, and the sun was blazing; the 
 straggling white road baked under his dusty 
 
 160
 
 THE CHILD IN THE GARDEN 161 
 
 boots. The heat, and the thought that Miss Net- 
 terville would probably return to luncheon — to 
 say nothing of the difficulty of seeking accommo- 
 dation without an interpreter — decided the curate 
 to remain for awhile. "A lemon-squash," he 
 commanded, at a venture, "bring me a lemon- 
 squash!" And then, as the order produced only 
 smiles and shrugs, he raised a hand to his mouth 
 w ith a gesture which he felt to be rather Southern 
 and graceful. 
 
 The landlord responded volubly, and though 
 he brought wine instead, the Rev. Aloysius 
 Chaysle was too thirsty and fatigued to make ob- 
 jections to it. He sat in a little vine-clad arbour, 
 with the wine on a bench, and his portmanteau 
 at his side, and was much inclined to wish that 
 he had not left Bedfordshire. The situation 
 was undignified from first to last, he felt. It was 
 no less than three years now since Gertrude had 
 promised to be his wife, and their marriage had 
 been delayed by nothing but the scientific cold- 
 ness of the young woman's disposition. When a 
 girl who was betrothed to a Church of England 
 clergyman, with private means, allowed hitn to 
 pine for her in his parish while she devoted her- 
 self to the study of archaeology abroad, it was 
 time for the clergyman to put his foot down.
 
 162 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 thought Aloysius. And that was what he had 
 travelled from Bedfordshire to do. 
 
 Meanwhile, Miss Netterville was trudging 
 along the road to greet him, with a frown on her 
 intellectual brow. She was quite aware that she 
 was treating him unfairly, and surmised pretty 
 shrewdly what he had come to say, and it would 
 all be a great bore. The idea of marriage had 
 never attracted her at any time; Man — other 
 than prehistoric — had always been rather repel- 
 lent to her than the reverse: and she wondered 
 why she had been weak enough to disturb her 
 life by becoming engaged. She approached the 
 arbour with no enthusiasm. 
 
 "Hallo, Al!" she said; "I didn't expect you so 
 early. Have you been here long?" 
 
 "I've been here the best part of an hour," re- 
 plied Aloysius. "It was disappointing to find 
 you were not at home. Well, how are you, Ger- 
 trude? Aren't you going to kiss me?" 
 
 She inclined a cheek awkwardly — such physical 
 expressions of good feeling were distasteful to 
 her — and stared at the portmanteau. 
 
 "What did you bring your bag out here for?" 
 she asked. "Why didn't you take it upstairs?" 
 
 "Upstairs?" echoed the curate. "It must be 
 taken to another hotel! But I can't speak to 
 these people — I had to wait till you came in."
 
 THE CHILD IN THE GARDEN 16S 
 
 "I'm afraid that there's nothing else resem- 
 bling an hotel for miles," she said; "Thergrimabes 
 is rather primitive, you know." 
 
 "It seems so primitive that I'm dismayed to 
 find you in it; but, with all your contempt for 
 the conventions, I suppose you don't want us to 
 be talked about ? Surely you understand that it's 
 out of the question for us both to sleep under 
 the same roof, in the circumstances?" 
 
 "Oh, my dear Aloysius," she cried, "please! 
 Spare me the artificialities! Go to one of the 
 goatherds' cottages, if any of them has a bed to 
 offer and you care to lie in it, but don't talk to 
 me as if I were an ingenue in Bedfordshire — I've 
 got beyond that sort of thing. Have they given 
 you anything to eat? Lunch'll be ready directly 
 — we may as well go inside." 
 
 "Gertrude," he began strenuously, "I've some- 
 thing to say to you, and it's just as well to say 
 it at once. Your letters haven't been very satis- 
 factory — over and over again you've left a ques- 
 tion of mine unanswered. We've been engaged 
 for three years now, and I want you to fix a day 
 for our wedding. Will you marry me next 
 month?" 
 
 "Xext month? Oh, no, it's impossible!" 
 
 "But why? Frankly, dear, I am losing pa- 
 tience. Why is it always 'impossible'? Mar-
 
 164 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 riage needn't interfere with your work — you can 
 write quite as easily when we're married as you 
 do now." 
 
 "In Bedfordshire?" she said, with a fine smile. 
 
 "I don't approve of the tone in which you men- 
 tion Bedfordshire!" exclaimed Aloysius. "I pre- 
 sume that a book may be written in Bedford- 
 shire as well as in Thergrimabes, or in Egypt, or 
 any other of the remote places that you've a 
 craze for? The whole thing is preposterous. It 
 looks a little like affectation. It would be pre- 
 posterous for a girl of twenty-eight to roam 
 about the world unprotected, in any case " 
 
 "Unprotected?" she echoed, "unprotected? 
 You are talking a language that I've forgotten. 
 Really, your notions are the most antique things 
 in Greece!" 
 
 "I say that it would be preposterous for a 
 young girl to roam about the world alone, in any 
 case — you might be robbed and murdered here — 
 and considering that you're engaged to me, it's 
 more preposterous still. It puts me in a very 
 false position. And it's not an easy matter to 
 explain. People have begun to talk." 
 
 "In Bedfordshire?" she inquired again. 
 
 "Yes, in Bedfordshire — and they would talk 
 in Bloomsbury, or Belgravia, or anywhere else. 
 It's not proper, Gertrude, it is thought very im-
 
 THE CHILD IN THE GARDEN 165 
 
 proper indeed. You must remember that you 
 are young and pretty, and " 
 
 "Oh, don't!" she said wearily. "What an 
 odious word! I'm not accustomed to consider 
 my personal appearance, but I do trust that I'm 
 not pretty.' " 
 
 "My sister often says that you would be ex- 
 tremely pretty," returned Aloysius, "if you didn't 
 strain your hair back, and paid more attention to 
 your clothes. But your prettiness is not the 
 point; the main thing is our engagement — you 
 haven't the right to behave like this, you aren't 
 free to indulge your eccentricities, you owe a 
 duty to ]Me." 
 
 INIiss Netterville lit a cigarette, and gazed 
 thoughtfully across a mulberry-tree. Character- 
 istically, she had made no change in her costume 
 on the day of her lover's arrival — and she had 
 stated a fact when she declared herself indif- 
 ferent to her appearance as a rule; but in spite 
 of the ill-fitting blouse, the unbecomingly dressed 
 blonde hair, in spite even of the coldly intellectual 
 eyes, she looked a desirable woman. A psychol- 
 ogist might have thought she looked also a woman 
 with potentialities. But Aloysius was not a 
 psychologist; he saw only the obvious — and not 
 the w^hole of that. 
 
 "Of course I am to blame," she said at last.
 
 166 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 "I know. But then I never pretended to the 
 kind of temperament that you admire. To me, 
 my paramount duty must always be my work; 
 to you, my paramount duty is to do the sort of 
 thing that any other woman could do equally 
 well. It is curious that I appeal to you. To be 
 quite candid, love in its physical aspects is un- 
 pleasant to me, quite apart from the fact that 
 marriage would be an abominable hindrance to 
 my studies. I have no gift for domesticity; the 
 prospect of district-visiting appals me, and tea- 
 parties bore me to death. And I have no leaning 
 towards maternity. I oughtn't to have promised 
 to marry at all — I have more important things to 
 do in my life. There are shoals of women capable 
 of adding to the world's population, but the 
 women capable of adding to its store of knowl- 
 edge are comparatively few." 
 
 "You are expressing yourself very strangely,'* 
 muttered the curate, "very strangely, indeed! If 
 I understand you, you are breaking our engage- 
 ment off." 
 
 "I don't want to be unkind," she said, "but I 
 am quite sure that you ought to do better." 
 
 "That is a matter on which you must allow me 
 to judge for myself — on which I did judge for 
 myself when I proposed to you. I could cer- 
 tainly wish that you held more feminine views —
 
 THE CHILD IN THE GARDEN 167 
 
 and that you did not express the views that you 
 do hold with such unusual bluntness — but, for 
 good or ill, I love you. You must admit that to 
 break off our engagement after all this time 
 would be to treat me cruelly? I really don't 
 know what I could say to people!" 
 
 "You could say that you had given me up — 
 everybody would consider you were quite justi- 
 fied." 
 
 "I am not in the habit of telling falsehoods, 
 Gertrude ; I should have to acknowledge that you 
 had thrown me over — at the end of three years, 
 after I had travelled to Greece to see you ; I had 
 looked forward to a tenderer conclusion to the 
 journey, I must say!" He, too, regarded the 
 mulberry-tree. "I — I am not unreasonable, I 
 quite appreciate your interest in your work — 
 archaeology is a very interesting subject, I am 
 sure, and " 
 
 Miss Netterville made a gesture of impatience. 
 "Please don't patronise the Ages! You mean 
 well, but it's irritating." 
 
 "I was about to explain that if next month 
 would be inconvenient to you on literary grounds, 
 I would cheerfully wait until the month after," 
 said Aloysius, with pained surprise. "Let us 
 both make concessions — let us say in two months' 
 time! Eh, dearest? We have both let our
 
 168 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 tongues run away with us, haven't we — both been 
 a httle hasty? What do you say? You shall 
 share my study — you shall have your own shelves 
 in it. Only the other day I was looking at a 
 little bamboo desk in the High Street, and think- 
 ing how admirably it would suit you. Td write 
 my sermons while you wrote your book, and 
 sometimes we might turn round and read each 
 other what we had done. Wouldn't it be cosy, 
 now? Doesn't it sound pleasant?" 
 
 She shuddered, and nerved herself for a su- 
 preme effort. 
 
 "Al!" she stammered, "it has been a shocking 
 mistake; I can't marry you." 
 
 And the curate did not sleep anywhere at all 
 in Thergrimabes — he left it the same evening. 
 When he bade her "Good-bye," he said, "I have 
 released you from your promise, Gertrude, be- 
 cause you forced me to do so; but I shan't cease 
 to long for you, and if you ever change your 
 mind, you must let m^e know. Think things over 
 after I have gone — I shall always be hoping to 
 hear from you." Then he climbed into the crazy 
 vehicle, and was jolted over the white road again 
 — a disconsolate figure beside the portmanteau 
 that had not been unpacked — and Miss Netter- 
 ville went moodily to her work. 
 
 Thergrimabes consists of its dilapidated inn
 
 THE CHILD IN THE GARDEN 169 
 
 and a sprinkling of hovels. Half -naked children 
 swarm in the dust, and beg of any misguided 
 tourist who happens to stray there from the 
 towns beyond ; goatherds, dignified in their rags, 
 roll cigarettes pensively, and prematurely old 
 women occasionally appear at the doors and 
 shade their eyes in the sun. These are almost 
 the only signs of activity in Thergrimabes. For 
 the rest, you have silence and the mountains. 
 
 Miss Netterville made majiy expeditions up 
 the mountains; equipped with a scribbling block 
 and a fountain pen, she often wrote among them. 
 One evening — she had now written thirty thou- 
 sand words, and Aloysius had been gone about a 
 month — she heard the slow sound of hoofs. Two 
 quaintly garbed men were riding down the track. 
 They had evidently just observed her, and as she 
 turned, one of them waved his sombrero to her, 
 with an impudent smile. He was the taller of the 
 pair, a swarthy, handsome fellow, with laughing 
 eyes, and a big moustache that curled above full, 
 sensual lips. She bent over her manuscript again 
 with a frown, wondering why his glance had af- 
 fected her so queerly. 
 
 The men quickened their pace, and then dis- 
 mounted and advanced to her. Her emotion was 
 pure fear now; she got up, trembling. 
 
 "There is nothing to do — she is alone!" said
 
 170 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 the smaller of the two, a weedy villain, with a 
 squint. 
 
 "You will find you have more to do than you 
 think," she boasted, coolly; "I am armed." 
 
 "So you understand Greek, do you?" ex- 
 claimed his companion. "That's all the better — 
 I like a girl to be able to talk to me! You are 
 going to have a ride with me, my beauty. If 
 you don't come quietly, I shall have to be rough ! 
 How is it to be?" 
 
 He learnt how it was to be at once; Miss 
 Netterville struck at the handsome face straight 
 from the shoulder — throwing her body into the 
 blow with capital effect — and took to flight as he 
 reeled back. But the next instant he rushed 
 after her; he seized her before she had covered a 
 dozen yards. Now there was no chance to strike 
 him — an arm flung round her held her fast, and 
 she could only scream for help. He swung her 
 off her feet, and stumbled with her towards the 
 saddle. His labouring breath was in her face, 
 but his eyes laughed into her own, though the 
 blood that she had drawn was trickling round his 
 mouth. As he rode off with her, crushed against 
 him, she could feel the heaving of his breast 
 under her cheek. They rode some distance with 
 her cheek strained against his breast before he 
 spoke.
 
 THE CHILD IN THE GARDEN 171 
 
 ''Anathema ton! What a spitfire you are!" 
 he panted. "Look what your fist has done ! Don't 
 you think you owe me a kiss for that?" 
 
 "You brute," she gasped, "I'd like to kill you!" 
 
 "You're a regular devil of a woman — I didn't 
 know they made them like you with that coloured 
 hair." 
 
 "You're hurting my arm," she moaned. "I 
 can't bear it any longer." 
 
 "Will you sit still if I don't hold so tight?" 
 
 "I couldn't escape even if I jumped off." 
 
 "That's true," said the brigand, "but I don't 
 want the job of getting you up again; if I had 
 your weight in gold, my dear, I'd lead an easy 
 hfe!" He slackened his grasp a little, and flashed 
 his bold, impudent smile at her — the smile that 
 had shamed her so hotly when she first saw him. 
 "Come, it's not disagreeable to be hugged by a 
 man? Own up! It would be very shocking if 
 you could help it, but you can't ; remind yourself 
 that you're not to blame, and then you can have 
 a good time!" 
 
 "Where are you taking me?" 
 
 "To my hotel," said the facetious outlaw. 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "Call it a 'cave' if you like — I'm not proud, 
 and I have a fancy for a quiet spot. But there's 
 room enough for you in it — and food and wine.
 
 172 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 We'll have a bottle together. Don't look so 
 frightened. I'll release you safe and sound when 
 the ransom is paid, I take my oath." 
 
 Miss Netterville stared into the twilight. She 
 might tell him that there was no one to ransom 
 her; but if he believed the statement, he would 
 probably be reckless how he treated her, she 
 thought ; her only safeguard was to leave him the 
 illusion that her safety would be paid for heavily. 
 
 "How much do you demand?" 
 
 "I shall open my mouth jolly wide. You are 
 a pretty woman — you would be very vexed if I 
 put a low price on you!" He broke into a roar 
 of laughter, and clasped her more caressingly. 
 
 His good humour was not without a reassuring 
 effect. The scoundrel was very human, and her 
 horror of him had partially subsided. Indeed, 
 as they rode on in this close embrace, she mar- 
 velled that she could bear the ignominy of it 
 with such fortitude. 
 
 It was a long ride; her thoughts wandered in 
 it, and curious fancies crossed her mind. She 
 thought of Aloysius, and wished that he were 
 different. It occurred to her that it would be 
 pleasant to be clasped to Aloysius like this — al- 
 ways with the proviso "if he were different" — 
 and then she reflected that the ride itself would 
 be pleasant if the brigand were a gentleman, and
 
 THE CHILD IN THE GARDEN 173 
 
 their embrace were right. Insensibly she yielded 
 to it more and more. It grew less repugnant 
 
 to her, and even With a shock she realised 
 
 what she had been feeling, and shivered with self- 
 disgust. 
 
 "We have arrived," said the brigand; he car- 
 ried her inside. "It is nice to carry you, now 
 that you don't struggle," he added. 
 
 On entering, she was plunged into darkness so 
 intense that she could discern nothing whatever. 
 Then she found herself borne into a cave illu- 
 mined by pendant oil lamps, and furnished with 
 considerable comfort. Beyond was a second cleft 
 of light, and she perceived that the cave resem- 
 bled a suite of rooms communicating with one 
 another by means of apertures in the rock. The 
 man who had assisted in her capture rejoined her 
 now, and three others appeared, who saluted her 
 with quiet satisfaction. There was no excite- 
 ment, no hint of violence; to her surprise, her 
 reception was as formal as if she had arrived at 
 an inn — as formally as innkeepers the brigands 
 prepared to keep her prisoner. 
 
 Excepting the captain! The captain, as has 
 been seen, did his business with bonhomie. If 
 not "the mildest mannered man that ever cut a 
 throat," at least he was the most jovial. No 
 gallant ever filled a lady's glass, or peeled her figs
 
 174 THE MAX WHO UXDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 with more consideration, and when he told the 
 company how vaHantly she had defended herself, 
 he testified to her prowess with so much humour 
 that she couldn't restrain a smile. 
 
 At the same time, it was with no httle trepida- 
 tion that she found herself alone with him again 
 when the meal was finished. It proved necessary, 
 to confess that she had no friends in Greece with 
 whom he could communicate, and, moreover, 
 that none of her friends in England was in a 
 position to ransom her ; he twirled his moustache 
 thoughtfully when she explained. 
 
 "Xo lover?" he questioned. "Rubbish, you 
 mustn't tell me that you have no lover — a woman 
 like you!" 
 
 *'It is true," she declared. 
 
 "Xor a husband?" 
 
 "Xo ; I was to have married, but I changed my 
 mind." 
 
 '^Dlahole! he had no blood in his veins, or he 
 would have carried you off, like me. Well, it 
 seems that I have made a bungle, eh? Women 
 are all hars, but every man is a fool once, and I 
 beheve you. So I have had a punch in the face 
 for nothing? That's a nice thing!" 
 
 "I have a watch on," she suggested; "you can 
 take that if you hke." It was a httle Swiss watch
 
 THE CHILD IN THE GARDEN 175 
 
 that had cost thirty shillings. He looked at it, 
 and gave a shrug. 
 
 "Is that what you offer me to let you go? I 
 think you are worth more." 
 
 "I have nothing else to offer. Besides, al- 
 though I haven't any friends to pay a ransom, 
 there are plenty of people to miss me ; the search 
 might not do me much good, but it would prob- 
 ably end in your being shot. As you can't hope 
 to make any money by me, you'd be wise to set 
 me free." 
 
 "You have brains, too, under that lovely hair," 
 he remarked, appreciatively. "May I offer you 
 a cigarette?" 
 
 "Xo," she said; but she eyed the packet wist- 
 fully, and wished that her case were in her pocket. 
 
 "Now you are being a little donkey! Why 
 should I wait to drug you with a cigarette when 
 I could tap you on the head with one of these?" 
 He touched the pistols in the sash wound round 
 his sturdy waist. "You see I am smoking them 
 myself — take your choice among the lot!" 
 
 ISIiss Netterville and the brigand smoked in 
 silence for a few moments. Then ■ 
 
 "Everj^ man is a fool once," he repeated medi- 
 tatively, "but there must be a limit to his foUv. 
 If I set you free hke this, what sort of ass would
 
 176 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 you think me? No better than the wooer who let 
 you change your mind!" 
 
 "I should think you had acted like a brave and 
 generous fellow!" 
 
 "Ah, you want to flatter me into it, you cun- 
 ning cat!" he said. "Do you know that I could 
 love you desperately, my beauty with the yellow 
 hair? I believe I fell in love with you when I 
 felt your fist! I like you for having hit me — I 
 should like you to hit me again. Come and hit me 
 again, beauty with the yellow hair — or sing me a 
 love song. Do you sing?" 
 
 "No," she murmured. 
 
 "It's a pity, for you are a passionate woman — 
 you would have sung well. Why did you start ?" 
 
 She had started to discover that this bandit 
 knew her better than she had known herself un- 
 til an hour ago. "I didn't start," she answered. 
 
 "Fire has no heat, and there is no water in the 
 rivers; all things are as the right woman says," 
 he rejoined. "So you did not start, beauty, 
 though you have shaken the ash of your cigarette 
 on to your knees! Well, / will sing to you in- 
 stead. I will sing at your feet, while my poor 
 comrades have only their cards to play with. It 
 is good to be the captain sometimes — it is good 
 to-night." 
 
 He twanged the strings, and broke into a sere-
 
 THE CHILD IN THE GARDEN ITT 
 
 nade. The deep voice was untrained, but rich 
 and sweet. After the first surprise, Miss Netter- 
 ville forgot who it was that sang — it was an art- 
 ist on the stage, a lover below a window; almost 
 it was her own lover, whom she loved ! The mu- 
 sic knocked at her heart, and no trace of the smile 
 that discomfited her so much was on the hand- 
 some face now — sentiment idealised the ruffian. 
 
 When he finished she w^as very pale. 
 
 "Are you as cold as the woman of the song?" 
 he whispered. 
 
 "Yes," she muttered, "I am as cold." 
 
 "You lie," he cried, "you love me!" And the 
 next instant she snatched a pistol from his sash. 
 
 "I'll kill myself!" she gasped. 
 
 She thought her wrist was broken as she 
 dropped the weapon. He picked it up and paced 
 the cave with agitation, smiting his chest, and 
 ejaculating. INIeanwhile, the English lady mar- 
 velled why she didn't loathe him. 
 
 "Will you go?" he exclaimed, suddenly. 
 "You shall go now, if you wish it; I swear you 
 shall be guided back. I love you, I adore you, 
 I implore you to stay! Do you wish to go?" 
 
 She bowed her head — "I wish to go." 
 
 He called to the men, and she heard their won- 
 derment, their departing footsteps — at last the 
 clip-clop sound of hoofs outside. All this time
 
 178 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 the captain had stood brooding silently; now he 
 raised his head, and she saw with emotion that 
 tears were in his eyes. 
 
 "Good-bye, zoe mou/'' he said. 
 
 "Oh!" she faltered. "Did you really love me 
 then?" 
 
 He opened his arms, and Miss Netterville gave 
 herself to them with impetuous lips. 
 
 "All is ready for the lady!" came the shout. 
 
 "They are waiting for you," said the brigand 
 sadly. 
 
 "There — ^there^s no hurry for a minute," Miss 
 Netterville heard herself reply. 
 
 Before she left hirri he assured her that her 
 escort might be trusted; and no mishap befell her 
 on the road. But she had lost her nerve ; a few 
 days later she returned to England, and — per- 
 haps she no longer considered protection so su- 
 perfluous — she married Aloysius the following 
 month, though he did not deem it necessary to 
 inform him of her adventure. 
 
 They have been married for some years now, 
 and get on together as well as most people. 
 Aloysius has obtained an excellent hving, and the 
 eldest of their children is a little son, who en- 
 grosses his mother's attention to the exclusion of 
 archaeology. If it were not for her son's favour-
 
 THE CHILD IN THE GARDEN 179 
 
 ite game, the vicar's wife might think less often 
 of her strange experience; but the boy tilts his 
 straw hat like a sombrero, and sticks a pop-gun 
 in his sash, and pretends that the summer-house 
 is the "brigands' cave." At such times, Aloysius 
 remarks humorously that "a little brigand is in- 
 appropriate to a vicarage garden." And the 
 lady's eyes are wide.
 
 A LETTER TO THE DUCHESS 
 
 "You said to me last night, Duchess, 'You are 
 a great musician, Socoloski, but a great musician 
 may be a great fool!' I had vexed you. If I 
 should not know that, forgive me; perhaps it is 
 common of me to recognise that I vexed you — I 
 shall always be ignorant of the best manners. 
 Pray be indulgent to my ignorance, pray let me 
 write to you boldly, because I have something to 
 say. 
 
 "But how difficult it is — I am a vulgarian, who 
 can express himself only by his violin ! I want to 
 say that when you looked at me so kindly, I was 
 not the dolt and ingrate that I seemed; I was 
 very proud, very honoured. If I appeared in- 
 sensible of your interest, it was because I had just 
 been stricken by a grief which I dared not hint. 
 
 "I arrived at your house late last night. You 
 will be revolted to learn what delayed me. When 
 my recital was over, and I had escaped from the 
 fashionable ladies who scrambled to kiss my 
 hands and pull buttons from my coat as keep- 
 sakes, I hurried to a minor music-hall to hear a 
 girl in tinsel sing a trashy song. I hurried there 
 
 180
 
 A LETTER TO THE DUCHESS 181 
 
 because I loved her, Duchess, and I had much to 
 think of when I left. To understand what was 
 in my heart when I reached your drawing-room, 
 you must read my love-story from the beginning 
 — my very vulgar love-storj^ that will disgust 
 you. 
 
 "Most of the things that you have seen about 
 me in the papers were false — anecdotes invented 
 by my agent. The public ask for anecdotes of 
 their favourite artists, and it is business to give 
 the public what they want. I generally play 
 the music that they want, though it is seldom the 
 music that I like best. I say that most of the 
 things you have heard about me were false, but 
 this much is true — my father was a peasant, and 
 I have fiddled in a fair. 
 
 "I was happy. I have been told of artists who 
 suffered agonies in their youth, always tortured 
 by ambition and dismayed by their obscurity. 
 With me it was quite different. I was more joy- 
 ous in a tent than I am now on the platforms. I 
 even knew at the time that I was happy. That 
 says much ! Ungrateful, perhaps I sound to you? 
 Still, I shall be frank. 
 
 "I was thirteen when I first heard the words, 
 'You will be famous.' I was on my way to buy 
 some apples, and the discussion that detained me 
 bored me a great deal. So ignorant was I, that I
 
 182 THE MAX WHO UXDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 swear to you 'Fame' said no more to me than 
 that one day I should fiddle with a roof of wood 
 over my head, and that storekeepers and farmers 
 would spell my name from a bill at the doors. 
 
 "My patron had me educated. To him I owe, 
 not only my position in the musical world, but the 
 fact that I am able to write this letter. I shall 
 not weary you by describing the years of study. 
 When I began to understand what lay before me, 
 my apprenticeship looked an endless martyrdom ; 
 more than once I was at the point of fleeing from 
 it. There is, they say, a special department of 
 Providence for the protection of fools; it is 
 Providence, no wisdom of my own, I have to 
 thank that I am not still a vagrant scraping to 
 villagers among the show wagons. The plans 
 mapped out for me succeeded in spite of myself; 
 at last the time arrived when it was said, 'Xow 
 we will commence !' 
 
 "Of course, I had come to my senses before 
 this. So far from hankering after the tents of my 
 boyhood, I was ashamed to remember that I had 
 ever played in them ; so far from picturing Fame 
 as the applause of shopkeepers in a shed, I 
 thirsted for something more than the reception 
 accorded me at mv debut. Ambition devoured 
 me now. If I have the right to praise mj'self for
 
 A LETTER TO THE DUCHESS 183 
 
 anvthincr. it is for the devotion with which I 
 worked during the five vears that followed. 
 
 '"Well, I made a furore. Audiences rained 
 roses on me and struggled to reach the platform. 
 Great ladies invited me to their receptions, and 
 bent their eves on me as if I were a ffod. I 
 found it frightfully confusing; under my veneer, 
 under my fashionable suit, I was still the peasant 
 who had held his cap for coppers. I discovered 
 that it was necessary for me to do more than 
 master my art — that I was required to say inter- 
 esting things to people who frightened me; my 
 popularity suffered a little because I could not do 
 it. The agent was furious at my bashfulness. 
 'You must speak to the ladies as if you were in 
 love with them,' he told me; 'or if you cannot 
 do that, be rude I Make an eff'ect somehoic. You 
 answer as if you were a servant.' 
 
 *"^Ianv of my eccentric remarks that you have 
 heard. Duchess, have been composed with diffi- 
 culty, and practised with care. The world will 
 not have us as we are. ^Iv assent often returns a 
 portrait-poster of me to the printer, with the in- 
 structions, 'Put more soul into the eyes'! 
 
 "I am cominoj to mv love-story. It was no 
 further back than last year that I first met her. I 
 
 ft 
 
 had given a recital at Blithepoint, and was re-
 
 184 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 maining there for a few days' rest. One evening 
 I went to a variety entertainment in the pavilion 
 on the pier. 
 
 "In the bill were three girls described as 'The 
 Three Sisters Clicquot.' They appeared as thea- 
 tre attendants — the programme sellers who show 
 you to your box — and sang, to a rather plaintive 
 air, that they once hoped to be stars themselves. 
 And then, having blossomed into gauze and span- 
 gles, they burlesqued melodrama. After their 
 turn, two of the trio came into the stalls, and, by 
 chance, I spoke to one of them; a Strong Man 
 had broken a sixpence in halves, and thrown the 
 pieces over the footlights — the girl asked me to 
 let her see the piece that I picked up. 
 
 "I do not suppose I exchanged twenty words 
 with her, and certainly I gave no thought to the 
 incident ; but a night or two later I drifted on to 
 the pier again, and came face to face with her 
 after the performance was over. 
 
 "She greeted me gaily. 'Hallo! Have you 
 been in front ?' 
 
 "'No,' I said; 'I am only strolling. Where 
 are your sisters — are they really your sisters?' 
 
 " 'Oh, no,' she answered. 'It's Nina Clicquot's 
 show — good name to choose, eh? The other girl, 
 Eva Jones, and I are engaged by her, that's all.
 
 A LETTER TO THE DUCHESS 185 
 
 This is my card.' From a battered purse she took 
 a card on which was printed: 
 
 3Iiss Betty Williams 
 
 The Three Sisters Clicquot 
 
 "We were near the entrance to the buffet. 
 'Will you come and have a drink?' I asked. 
 
 " 'Oh, I don't think I will, thanks,' she said. 
 'I'm waiting for Eva — I might miss her.' 
 
 " 'Oh, you'd better come,' I said. 
 
 "We went in and sat down at one of the tables. 
 She did not strike me as particularly good-look- 
 ing then; the spell of her face lay in its change- 
 fulness, and as yet I had not seen it change, for 
 her capabilities as an actress were of the slight- 
 est. I saw merely a pale, slim girl, becomingly 
 dressed in some dark stuff that was rather 
 shabby; when she lifted her brandy-and-soda, a 
 finger-tip showed through a glove. I wondered 
 why I had brought her in, and was glad that 
 there was no crowd to recognize me. It wasn't 
 till she told me so that I was sure she recognised 
 me herself. 
 
 "She said, 'I have never heard you play; I
 
 186 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 should love to! Did you get many people in 
 down here?' 
 
 "I couldn't help smiling. Yet it had a pleas- 
 ant ring, that question. It revived the past — 
 the days when I used to see the takings divided 
 on the drum. 
 
 " 'Oh,' she exclaimed, laughing, 'I forgot 1 Of 
 course you did — I'm not used to talking to big 
 guns.' But there was no embarrassment in her 
 apology — she might have been living among 'big 
 guns' all her life. 
 
 " 'How long have you been at it?' I asked her. 
 
 " 'The halls? Three years,' she said. 'I was 
 on the stage for a little while, not that I was up 
 to much. I was the starving heroine once — the 
 manager said I was the worst leading lady he 
 had ever seen, but that I "looked the part," be- 
 cause I was all bones. I a7n a skeleton, aren't I? 
 I chucked the stage ; the halls pay much better — 
 and my voice isn't bad. Of course, it's not a 
 trained voice, but it isn't bad, eh? We have two 
 shows a night next week — that means five pounds 
 to me. Good for little Betty!' By the way, she 
 was not little. 
 
 " 'What do you do with so much money?' One 
 must say something. 
 
 " 'Oh, I've plenty to do with it,' she said. 
 
 " 'A husband to keep?'
 
 A LETTER TO THE DUCHESS 187 
 
 "'Give us a chance!' she laughed. *No, but 
 mother doesn't make much by the shop any more 
 — she's a costumier — and there are the kids to 
 bring up — I've two young brothers. She did well 
 once; I used to go up West, to try for engage- 
 ments, dressed to kill — she lent me the models to 
 put on. I often didn't have twopence in my 
 pocket, but I looked a treat. The only thing was, 
 I was so afraid of its raining — then we couldn't 
 sell the model.' 
 
 " 'You've had hard times?' I said, interested. 
 
 "She nodded gravely. 'Rough! I've always 
 found very good pals, though. When I went into 
 the chorus at the Regalia, I and a friend of 
 mine hadn't a cent between us for bus fares ; and 
 there was an old Johnnie — one of the syndicate 
 — who took to us. Quite straight! He said, 
 "Look here, I know you two girls aren't getting 
 enough to eat; I've booked a table at the Troc, 
 and you're both to lunch there right through the 
 rehearsals. If you can't get away for lunch, it's 
 to be dinner; but one square meal a day the two 
 of you must have regularly, or there'll be rows. 
 Mind, it isn't to be a meal for more than two!" ' 
 Her face lit with laughter. 'There were some 
 boys in the chorus just as stony as we were; my 
 friend would lunch one day, and I'd lunch the 
 next — we'd each take a boy in turn! But the
 
 188 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 old man found out what was going on — and the 
 Troc was off ! . . . I've had cases of champagne 
 sent me, if you please! He was a wine mer- 
 chant's son — wanted to marry me; his screw in 
 the business was about a pound a week. Nice lit- 
 tle fellow. He always called me "Jack." He 
 used to say, "I can't come in the pit to see the 
 show to-night — I haven't got a bob; but have a 
 case of champagne. Jack ! I'll send you one round 
 — it doesn't cost me anything." ' 
 
 "I liked it. For years I had conversed with 
 only two kinds of women — the women who awed 
 me, and the women who were awed. In five min- 
 utes I was as spontaneous as she. Her tones 
 were, for the most part, very pleasant, and now 
 that she was animated, the play of her features 
 fascinated me. When we had finished our di'inks 
 we sauntered round and round the pavilion. 
 
 " 'The performing birds are on,' she said, as we 
 caught the music; 'I hate that show, I hate an 
 audience for standing it. Don't they know it's 
 cruel? Performing birds make me think of the 
 first bird you see die — you're a child, it's gener- 
 ally the first time you've looked at death. You 
 bury your bird in the garden, and you line the 
 grave with flowers, so that the horrid earth shan't 
 touch it.' Her voice fell to a whisper. 
 
 "By the burst of applause that reached us in
 
 A LETTER TO THE DUCHESS 189 
 
 the moonlight I knew that the pavilion was 
 packed. 
 
 " 'That's Heracles, the Strong Man,' she said, 
 as we listened again. 'What did you think of 
 him? He's in love with my "sister" — I mean 
 Eva Jones. He wanted to kiss her, and she put 
 on side — oh, Eva was very haughty! "Sir, how 
 dare you?" He had hold of her finger, and he 
 drew her to him as if she had been a piece of 
 paper — it was so funny, to see her going. He 
 worships the ground she walks on, fact! That 
 was the reason his challenge night was a frost — 
 didn't you hear about his challenge night? He 
 bet that no twelve men in Blithepoint could pull 
 him over the line. Then he got drunk, because 
 she wouldn't have anything to do with him — 
 and they pulled him all over the place. It cost 
 him ten pounds, besides his reputation. He 
 cried. "Ah, little girl," he said to her, "it is all 
 through you!" ' 
 
 "It was amazing, that on the stage she could 
 not act. As I heard her tell this story, I would 
 have sworn she was a born comedienne. The ex- 
 aggerated dignity of Miss Jones, its ludicrous 
 collapse, the humiliation of the Strong Man, she 
 brought the scenes before me. 'Go on,' I begged, 
 *talk some more!' 
 
 "But before she could talk much more, the
 
 190 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD ^WOMEN 
 
 obdurate Miss Jones appeared. I was preseiited, 
 and wished them 'Good-night.' I could have 
 seen them to their lodging, but — well, Miss 
 Jones's attire was not to my taste, and she 
 had forgotten to take the make-up off her eyes. 
 
 "I am writing more than I intended; I had no 
 idea that my explanation would be so long! 
 
 "The next night I did walk to their lodging 
 with them. It was Saturday, their last night in 
 the town; on Monday they were to sing in a 
 London suburb. Miss Jones had to leave a par- 
 cel with an acquaintance at the Theatre Royal, 
 and, in her absence, Betty WiUiams and I paced 
 the street alone. A quarter of an hour, perhaps. 
 She was looking forward to the week at home. 
 She was serious to-night ; she talked to me of her 
 mother and the 'boys.' I said I hoped she would 
 find them well; and we shook hands — 'Good-bye.' 
 The incident seemed closed, but I went away with 
 an impression I had never experienced before — 
 the impression of having met someone who ought 
 to have been my very good friend. 
 
 "When I breakfasted on the morrow, I felt 
 blank in realising that her train had already gone. 
 Every day I had to combat a temptation to run 
 up to that suburb. When my holiday came to 
 an end, I wondered if she was in town still. By 
 a music-hall paper, I ascertained that The Three
 
 A LETTER TO THE DUCHESS 191 
 
 Sisters Clicquot were in Derby. Each week I 
 bought the paper to learn the movements of The 
 Three Sisters Clicquot; and each week I told 
 myself it would be absurd of me to follow her sa 
 far. Eventually, I followed her to Yorkshire. 
 
 "What a town! The grey grim streets, the 
 clatter of the clogs, the women's hopeless faces 
 under the shawls! I put up at a commercial 
 hotel — there was nothing else — and was directed 
 to the Empire. 
 
 "Their name was far down the programme: 
 'Number 10: The Three Sisters Chcquot.' I be- 
 gan to think that we should never reach it. Num- 
 ber 8 proved to be a conjurer, and my heart sank 
 as I beheld the multitude of articles that he meant 
 to use before he finished. Number 9 was a troupe 
 of acrobats ; a dozen times they made their bows 
 and skipped off — only to skip on again and do 
 some more. At last! The number '10' was dis- 
 played; the little plaintive symphony stole from 
 the orchestra, the three girls filed on — Eva 
 Jones, next JVIiss Clicquot, then Betty. 
 
 "I wondered if she would notice me. I saw her 
 start — she smiled. I was so pleased that I had 
 gonel We talked presently, in the passage un- 
 der the stage. She was very much surprised; I 
 did not tell her that I was there only to meet her 
 again. Once more I walked with her and Eva
 
 192 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 Jones to their door. In the morning I called on 
 them. 
 
 "I stayed in the place four or five days. There 
 were luncheons in the private room that I had 
 been able to secure at the hotel. I went to tea 
 with them at their apartments. In fine, I was 
 very much in love, and I knew that I had been 
 a fool. I knew it for a reason which will be diffi- 
 cult for you to credit, Duchess; this girl, who 
 took a brandy-and-soda with a stranger in a bar, 
 who accepted little presents from others, and 
 dined with men who had only one motive for in- 
 viting her, remained perfectly virtuous. In dif- 
 ferent classes there are different codes — she did 
 not regard her behaviour as wrong; more, if she 
 had committed the act which she knew to be 
 wrong, she would have broken her heart. 'No 
 matter how much a man cares for a girl,' she said 
 to me once, 'he can't hold her any more sacred 
 than she holds herself at the beginning. A girl 
 saves herself for a man she is thinking of; she 
 hasn't seen him — in all probability she never will 
 see him; but she is saving herself for him — the 
 imaginary man — from her head to her heels! 
 . . . You tell me I "shouldn't do this," and I 
 "shouldn't do the other" — I don't do any harm. 
 If you knew how dull it is on tour, you'd under- 
 stand my taking all the fun I can get. When a
 
 A LETTER TO THE DUCHESS 19S 
 
 fellow asks me to lunch, I go; I say I'll go with 
 another girl — that tells him everything, doesn't 
 it? I swear to God I've only let one man kiss 
 me in my life — and then I only did it out of pity, 
 because he was so cut up. A man is never dan- 
 gerous till he's beaten. Do you know that?' 
 Well, I was not prepared to marry her, and she 
 could be nothing to me if I didn't ; I left York- 
 shire with the firm intention of never seeing her 
 any more. 
 
 "However, I missed her dreadfully, and at the 
 end of a month, I succumbed again. I went to 
 Lancashire this time. The same impatience in 
 my stall, the same quiver of expectancy at the 
 plaintive introduction that was so familiar now, 
 the same throb as the three girls appeared. 
 Why should I bore you with details ? I was with 
 her all day, every day. Tea and chatter in the 
 lodging became an institution, and we grew 
 serious only when the melancholy dusk signalled 
 her departure for the hall. She was not fasci- 
 nated by her career: 'How I hate going in!' she 
 murmured sometimes, as we reached the artists' 
 entrance, with the group of loafers spitting on 
 the kerb. And I sat in front, just to see the 
 turn, and talk to her again between the first per- 
 formance and the second — in the passage at the 
 foot of the dirty steps, where such draughts
 
 194 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 poured through the slamming door, and the gas- 
 jet blew crooked in its cage. 
 
 "She was fond of me; I knew it. I had only 
 to ask her to marry me — I knew that her consent 
 wouldn't be due to my position. There were 
 moments when I was very near to asking her. 
 But I was Socoloski, and she — a third-rate va- 
 riety artist. I shuddered to think what the So- 
 ciety ladies would say if their god stooped — for 
 that matter, what everybody would say. No 
 woman could have been more different from the 
 wife I had pictured. Yet no woman had ever 
 been so truly a companion to me. Always a bo- 
 hemian at heart, I had naturally fallen in love 
 with a bohemian; but when he draws a portrait 
 of the wife that he desires, every man is conven- 
 tional. Besides, you, and great ladies like you, 
 had made me a snob. She drove with me to the 
 station on the day I left. She knew I wouldn't 
 go to her again — I heard it in her voice. That 
 was the only time I felt dull when I was with 
 her — we both could have said so much and were 
 allowed to say so little. I remember the look in 
 her eyes as the train crept from the platform. I 
 shall always remember the look in her eyes as 
 she smiled on the platform ! 
 
 "Even a weak man may be strong sometimes 
 — in the wrong place ; I stuck to my resolve. At
 
 A LETTER TO THE DUCHESS 195 
 
 first, I still glanced at the Encore, just to know 
 where she was, but before long I denied myself 
 this, too. My American tour started soon after- 
 wards. The change helped me while it lasted, 
 but when I came back the struggle was as bad as 
 ever. Six months had passed, yet every day I 
 hungered to see her. I was desperate. I didn't 
 know what to do to keep myself in hand. 
 
 "Duchess, my motive in addressing you is to 
 write the truth, even the truths that one blushes 
 to acknowledge. When I welcomed the dawn of 
 your interest in me, I turned to you as a chance 
 of forgetting her — I did not mean to prove so 
 obtuse as I appeared last night. Perhaps, a gen- 
 tleman might have seized the chance, too, but, I 
 suppose, only a cad would own it to you after- 
 wards. 
 
 "And I couldn't forget! I never responded to 
 your gaze without wishing it were hers. I re- 
 sented the very gowns that you received me in, 
 because slie was poorly dressed. I hated myself 
 for being in your drawing-room while she was 
 trudging through the rain. 
 
 "My God! it's awful to think like that of a 
 woman — to have the thought of her beset you as 
 you open your eyes in the morning; to think till 
 you're worn out with thinking of her, and pray
 
 196 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 to think of something else; to think of her till you 
 want to escape from your own mind! 
 
 "Tolerate me a little longer — I have nearly 
 done! 
 
 "Last Saturday, it was a year since I had seen 
 her. I broke down — I was ready to make her my 
 wife. I wondered if she would look as pleased as 
 she used to look when she saw me — and then I 
 froze at the thought that The Sisters Clicquot 
 might be abroad, that they might have vanished 
 altogether. When I searched the Encore again, 
 I There were emotions ! 
 
 "'The Three Sisters CHcquot'! I found it. 
 They were in Portsmouth on Saturday; yester- 
 day they were to be in town. It was impossible 
 for me to go to Portsmouth ; my prayer was that, 
 after my recital yesterday, I might reach the 
 London hall before she left. I had no means of 
 knowing whether their turn would be late or 
 early; all through that recital I was torn with 
 the fear that I might miss her. The audience 
 delayed me beyond endurance — I was trembling 
 when I escaped from them. I stumbled into the 
 carriage, and told the man to drive like mad. 
 
 "He couldn't find the stage-door, and, too im- 
 patient to keep still, I leapt out and went to the 
 box-office. It was all right, they hadn't been on 
 yet! There could be no chance to speak to her
 
 A LETTER TO THE DUCHESS 19T 
 
 until the turn was over, so — just as I used to do 
 — I sat down to wait in the stalls. Just as I used 
 to do, I read the name of 'The Three Sisters 
 Chcquot' in a programme and wished that the 
 preceding turn didn't last so long. 
 
 "I had taken it for granted that they would be 
 giving a different song now — and my heart 
 tightened at the greeting of that familiar sym- 
 phony again. For an instant I could not look 
 at the stage. I knew, with my head bent, the 
 moment when the three girls filed on; I knew 
 where they were moving, how they were standing 
 — now the note that they were going to sing! I 
 looked up for Betty's face — and saw a stranger. 
 
 "Oh, the horrible woman, the low, horrible 
 woman ! And I had to watch her, I watched her 
 in spite of myself. The audience laughed and 
 shouted while I sat there with the sickness of ter- 
 ror in me, while I watched that horrible woman 
 posturing in Betty's place, and wearing the frock 
 that Betty had worn. 
 
 "Afterwards, I found the artists' entrance, as; 
 I had proposed to find it — only I asked for Eva,, 
 instead of Betty. She came down to me, smiling, 
 in her stage costume. 
 
 " 'Who'd have thought of seeing you!' she ex- 
 claimed, as we shook hands; 'I was just going 
 to change.'
 
 198 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 " 'How are you?' I said dully, and our eyes 
 questioned each other. 
 
 " 'I suppose you know about Betty?' she said. 
 
 "I could only look at her. 
 
 " 'She's dead,' she told me. 
 
 *'The last turn was on — a comedian was bel- 
 lowing doggerel. I listened to bars of it before 
 I whispered, 'Dead?' 
 
 " 'She got tj^phoid when we were in Lincoln — 
 she died last month. Hadn't you heard?' 
 
 " 'No. . . . It's still "The Three Sisters Clic- 
 quot" on the bills.' 
 
 " 'Oh, yes, of course — it's always "The Three 
 Sisters Clicquot." . . . The new girl's not as 
 good as Betty was — do you think so?' 
 
 " 'I don't know.' 
 
 "The comedian was dancing now — I heard the 
 Tattle of his feet. Shabby, pasty-faced men kept 
 hurrying past us through the passage, up the dir- 
 ty steps; the door at the top was slamming, and 
 the gas-jet blew crooked in its cage. It was 
 strange to be among these things and not see 
 Betty. 
 
 " 'Good-bye,' I said. 'Did she ever talk of 
 me after I went?' 
 
 " 'Sometimes. She wasn't the girl to say much. 
 Betty liked you, though.' 
 
 'I liked Betty,' I said. . . . 'Well * 
 
 <( (-1
 
 A LETTER TO THE DUCHESS 199 
 
 It i^ 
 
 'Well,' she said, 'I must get along and 
 change. Buck up !' 
 
 "And then I went to you, your Grace; I had 
 promised to play to your guests, and I could not 
 break my word. But you may understand what 
 I was feeling while I played — that my thoughts 
 were in a grave. And when we were alone, you 
 may understand that, though you are charming, 
 and beautiful, and a duchess, and exalted me by 
 your caprice, I could not be guilty of that — out- 
 rage, that adultery towards the dead. 
 
 "Most humbly I beg you to believe that I am 
 grateful for the honour you have done a man who 
 was unworthy — who was loyal neither to you nor 
 her. You will never pardon me for this letter. 
 Good-bye."
 
 THE PRINCE IN THE FAIRY TALE 
 
 ''The carnage is at the door. Madam/' How 
 strange that still sounds when the solemn butler 
 says it — to me, Rosie McLeod! I go, wrapped 
 in furs, down the great staircase, pass the two 
 footmen — whose pomposity, • if I may own the 
 truth, rather frightens me — and enter my car- 
 riage in a dream. For a few minutes my grand- 
 eur seems unreal; I am remembering winters 
 when I used to shiver in a spring jacket, and 
 japan my summer straw. I feel as Cinderella 
 must have felt on her way to the Ball, and, in- 
 deed, I hold my history no less fairy-like than 
 hers, and my hero no less charming than her 
 Prince. I want to write the tale, and to think 
 that, far away in dear old England, other girls 
 will read it. I ought to explain that I am writ- 
 ing in New York, a city that I never expected to 
 see in all my life. But let me begin at the be- 
 ginning! 
 
 The beginning, then, was a draughty flat in 
 West Kensington. In looking back at it I see 
 
 200
 
 THE PRINCE IN THE FAIRY TALE 201 
 
 always a delicate, sweet-faced woman sitting by 
 the fire, and a dark slip of a girl sketching at a 
 table covered by a faded green cloth. The wom- 
 an was my mother; the girl was I. I know now 
 that I had very little talent, but I meant to be 
 an artist. When I sold my copy of "Shoeing 
 the Bay Mare" one morning, while I was work- 
 ing at the National, I was prouder of myself 
 than I have ever been since. Pray don't think I 
 am vain of it now; copies of that were rather 
 easy to sell, and the girls in my time were accord- 
 ingly eager for their turn to begin it; I only 
 mention the matter because it was the first and 
 the last money that my mother saw me earn. 
 Dear little mother ! But we were very happy to- 
 gether, weren't we, although we were poor? 
 Dear little mother, if you were living to-day, 
 what lovely, lovely things you should have ! . . . 
 At her death I was left quite alone. It is true 
 that I had some second cousins, but I had not 
 met them, and they showed no desire to meet me 
 then. From one source and another I had about 
 three hundred pounds, and in my ignorance I 
 expected to support mj^self by my brush before 
 the sum had melted. When I was free of the 
 flat I took a lodging in Bayswater, and continued 
 to study at a life-class. Excepting that I worked.
 
 202 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 and hoped, and very often cried, there is nothing 
 to tell you of the next two years. 
 
 Then one afternoon I saw Miss Niblett in 
 Kensington Gardens. She was an artist who had 
 long been an acquaintance of ours. As far back 
 as I remember she used to drop in to tea about 
 twice a year, and talk of the great things she 
 was going to do. She never seemed to grow any 
 older, nor to do the great things. She was a 
 spirited, chirpy little woman, and when she set- 
 tled in Paris both my mother and I had missed 
 her occasional visits very much. In the Broad 
 Walk she greeted me as brightly as ever, and we 
 strolled to the Round Pond, and talked for an 
 hour. She was returning in a week's time, and 
 I heard that she was living there in the cheapest 
 possible way, occupying a studio and bedroom in 
 the quarter called "Montparnasse," and market- 
 ing and cooking for herself. She told me of the 
 great things she was going to do. 
 
 "Why don't you come back with me, child?" 
 she asked presently. "Come and study in Paris, 
 and then you won't be so lonely. Wouldn't you 
 like to?" 
 
 "I should love it," I faltered, with a heart- 
 thump, "but " 
 
 "But, what?"
 
 THE PRINCE IN THE FAIRY TALE 203 
 
 "I don't know. . . . For one thing, I can't 
 speak French." 
 
 "Tut," cried Miss Niblett. "Hundreds of the 
 girls don't speak French. You'll learn." For a 
 minute we sat silent, gazing at the toy ships sail- 
 ing across the pond. Then she added briskly, 
 "You had better come!" 
 
 "All right," I said. And that was how I went. 
 
 Yes, I went to study in Paris, and to live in 
 the queerest fashion imaginable. Our rooms 
 were up ninety-eight stairs of a dingy house in 
 a dilapidated court. At six o'clock in the morn- 
 ing the court used to wake, and be so exceedingly 
 busy — and cheerful withal — that anyone there 
 would have been ashamed to lie abed. To begin 
 with, there was the rushing of water outside, for 
 tap there was none, and one by one the tenants 
 clattered to a pump with a bucket, to obtain their 
 supply for the day. Then the hawkers made 
 their appearance, each with his own peculiar 
 chant. "It arrives, it arrives, the mackerel! Who 
 wishes for my fine mackerel this morning?" And 
 "The mussels ! the mussels most delicious !" And 
 "Some milk — some fresh milk?" And I mustn't 
 forget the noise that was made by shaking out 
 the rugs from every window. I have never seen 
 a city that opens its eyes so good-humouredly as
 
 204- THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 Paris. In pictures it is always shown to us at 
 night with its myriad lamps shining, or in the 
 afternoon when it is frivolous, and its fountains 
 flash ; but, in my own little unimportant opinion, 
 if one would know Paris at its sweetest and its 
 best, one should get up very, very early, and be- 
 hold it smiling when it wakes to work. 
 
 I have told you that we lived up ninety-eight 
 stairs; I must tell you something about the peo- 
 ple who lived on the lower landings. Of course 
 the lower the landing, the higher the rent, but 
 none of our neighbors had an air of opulence, 
 need I say it? All of them bustled to the pump 
 with pails, all of them cooked their own meals; 
 and it was rather a rare occurrence, I believe, for 
 everybody in that house to cook a dinner on the 
 same day. On the floor below ours there was a 
 madame Troquet, who painted fans and choco- 
 late boxes for a livelihood — the expensive and 
 gorgeous boxes covered with satin, which for- 
 tunate people have sent to them at Christmas, 
 and on their birthdays. Still lower there was an 
 American youth who was studying INIedicine. I 
 am afraid he did not study it very hard ; I should 
 be sorry to think that if I were ill in America 
 one day, he might be called in to prescribe for 
 me. Lower still there were two young French-
 
 THE PRINCE IN THE FAIRY TALE 205 
 
 men; one of them wrote verses, and his compan- 
 ion made sketches for some of the papers. And 
 — there was another American, who had moved 
 in while Miss Niblett was in London. So good- 
 looking ! 
 
 He was about seven-and-twenty, and, oh! he 
 was shabby. It made my heart ache to see the 
 threadbare clothes he wore, even there where I 
 had come to take threadbare clothes for granted. 
 I used to meet him at the pump sometimes, and 
 then he always insisted on carrying my pail for 
 me. I felt horrid to let him do it. I guessed he 
 didn't have enough to eat and needed all his 
 strength to drag his own pail up the stairs. Not 
 that he showed any signs of weakness. He would 
 mount beside me as gaily as if he liked the work 
 and the bucket were no more than a feather- 
 weight. He seemed quite strong and happy, and 
 
 I have told you how nice-looking he was, 
 
 haven't I? 
 
 A girl cannot allow a young man to carry a 
 pail of water up ninety-eight stairs for her with- 
 out thanking him. I mean it was impossible for 
 me just to say "Thank you," as if he had handed 
 me the toast, or picked up my sunshade. Of 
 course we spoke as we went up the stairs. He 
 told me he was an art student, like me, and I
 
 206 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 thought that no poor young man had ever been 
 more courageous and contented with his lot — if 
 one call a little a "lot." He talked as if he loved 
 the life. To listen to him one would have imag- 
 ined that poverty — "bohemianism" he termed it 
 — was a kind of treat — a privilege for the Select, 
 hke a ticket for the Royal Enclosure. I used to 
 forget to pity him till I looked at his coat. 
 
 "I think you are very brave," I couldn't help 
 saying once. 
 
 "Brave?" he exclaimed. "Why, how's that? 
 Where's the hardship? I think it's just the right 
 thing for a man to carry home his bread for 
 breakfast, and dine for a franc when he's flush. 
 It's glorious — teaches him to be independent. 
 And you?" he went on in a different tone. "Is 
 it very hard for you?''' 
 
 "Oh, I am one of the wealthy — for the time 
 being," I laughed. "I have quite a fortune as 
 
 yet." 
 
 "What shall you do when you have squandered 
 your milhons?" People did not stand on cere- 
 mony with one another at our pump. 
 
 "Paint," I said. 
 
 "Nobody to help you?" he asked. 
 
 *'My own right hand," said I. 
 
 He regarded it ruefully. "The prospect is not
 
 THE PRINCE IN THE FAIRY TALE 207 
 
 so charming as the hand," he murmured, "is it?" 
 
 "It's glorious," I declaimed, "for a girl to 
 carry home her bread for breakfast, and dine for 
 a franc when she's flush." 
 
 "No, it isn't," he said. "For a girl it's a dif- 
 ferent thing altogether. You'll excuse my con- 
 tradicting you? Besides, even a franc wants 
 earning when you have no allowance from home." 
 
 "I shall sell my Work," I declared valiantly. 
 In those days I always spelt my work with a cap- 
 ital W. 
 
 "I guess pictures take a deal of selling some- 
 times." 
 
 "I suppose you mean that you don't think I 
 shall ever paint well?" 
 
 "I haven't seen anything you have done," he 
 answered; "how could I mean that? . . . Here 
 we are at the top!" 
 
 We had reached our door, and Miss Niblett 
 was standing there, a stiff little figure of disap- 
 proval. Considering that I was only showing 
 the young man simple civility in return for his 
 extreme kindness, I am bound to say that Miss 
 Niblett's later remarks were absurd. Miss Nib- 
 lett said she should go downstairs with the pail 
 herself in future. 
 
 When she came up the next morning I was
 
 208 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 all ears. Was she alone? . . . No, I could hear 
 her speaking; and then there were steps, as some- 
 one turned away. "That Mr. Martin is certain- 
 ly polite," she said, as she entered; "he insisted 
 on bringing it up for me." 
 
 ''Who did?" I inquired loftily. 
 
 "That Mr. Martin," she repeated. "Who 
 else do you suppose would take the trouble?" 
 
 "Oh! I didn't know his name was 'Martin,' " 
 I explained. "You seem to be on very friendly 
 terms with him." 
 
 "Tut," said Miss Niblett. "Don't be ridicu- 
 lous, child, and make haste with the coffee, do!" 
 
 Though I did not meet Mr. Martin at the 
 pump any more, I very often chanced to meet 
 him on my way home from the art school. Each 
 time I liked him better, and of course I knew I 
 wasn't doing all the liking myself. He never 
 said anything, but a girl can always tell, can't 
 she? When I heard of the shifts that some of 
 the young men in the house were put to for a 
 meal, and thought that his straits must be as cruel 
 as any of them, I could have cried. There were 
 moments when food almost choked me, as I pic- 
 tured him sitting half starved in his room, his 
 chin sunk on his breast. I never saw him with his 
 chin sunk on his breast — ^never despondent in any;
 
 THE PRINCE IN THE FAIRY TALE 209 
 
 way — ^but I was sure his buoyancy was just put 
 on to hide his sufferings. 
 
 When I had been Hving in the court for about 
 two months, the sight of his coat, and the idea of 
 his privations, proved too bad to be borne. We 
 had become such comrades by then — for the walk 
 from the school took a long time, especially if 
 one didn't walk very fast — that I thought he 
 would let me speak like a sister to him. 
 
 "Mr. Martin," I murmured one day as we 
 went home, "I want you to do me a great favour, 
 please." 
 
 "Why, certainly," he said. "Right now ! What 
 is it?" 
 
 "Well," I said, "we are both students, and we 
 are very good friends, and it's all nonsense for 
 you to reply that because I'm a girl you can't re- 
 gard me as a real chum." And when I had stam- 
 mered that, I turned red, and gazed at the tips 
 of my shoes. 
 
 "But I haven't replied anything of the sort," 
 he said, with a laugh; "I'm waiting to hear what 
 you want me to do." 
 
 "You won't be offended?" I asked. 
 
 "I'm sure I could never be offended with you,'^ 
 he said earnestly. 
 
 "Or hurt?" I added
 
 ^10 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 "I'm sure you would never hurt me." 
 
 "Well, then, I want you to let me lend you a 
 little money till things are better. Will you?" 
 
 His eyes widened at me ; and then he — blushed. 
 He did, he blushed ; I saw the colour spread right 
 up to his temples. I hated myself, though I had 
 done my best to say it all delicately. 
 
 "I am very, very grateful to you," said Mr. 
 Martin. "Believe me, I'm not in need of money. 
 But you're a chum, indeed." 
 
 "Oh, you're too proud to confess," I gulped — 
 and there was a lump in my throat that I couldn't 
 swallow. 
 
 We were crossing one of the bridges, and I 
 stopped and looked at the sun sinking, while I 
 tried to blink my tears back. He stood there by 
 me, and was quiet for a minute. When he spoke, 
 I hardly recognised his voice, it trembled so 
 much. 
 
 "Will you tell me something?" he whispered. 
 
 I nodded. 
 
 "Why did you say this to me?" 
 
 "Because I know you are poor, and Fm poor 
 and can understand. But I could spare a small 
 sum easily, and I thought you'd be great enough 
 to let me help you." 
 
 "You have helped me," he answered; "helped 
 me to ask you a question that I hadn't the pluck
 
 THE PRINCE IN THE FAIRY TALE 211 
 
 to put. . . . Dear little chum, do you care for 
 me?" 
 
 "Yes," I told him. 
 
 "Enough to wait till a pauper can afford to 
 marry you?" 
 
 "Yes," I told him. 
 
 "I love you," said Mr. Martin, "with all my 
 heart!" 
 
 And the boats were sailing down the river, and 
 a crowd was on the bridge, but I couldn't see 
 them. In all Paris there was no one but our- 
 selves. We were alone in the sunset — he and I! 
 
 I knew what Miss Xiblett would say, and she 
 said it — "Tut!" She warned me that I was do- 
 ing a rash, an improvident thing. And after she 
 had reproached herself for bringing me to 
 France, and prophesied a hopeless waiting and 
 the workhouse for me by turns, she hugged me 
 splendidly, and wished me happiness. There 
 you have jNIiss Niblett! 
 
 Then my fiance was invited up to supper, and 
 we were merry. I was annoyed to see that, while 
 I was making the salad, she had examined him 
 about his prospects. Of course I did see it, when 
 I came back, by his embarrassed look and Miss 
 Niblett's air of dissatisfaction. Still I repeat 
 that we were merry that evening, although I 
 could not help regretting that I had so often
 
 212 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 spoken to her of my fear that he didn't get 
 enough to eat. It wasn't quite nice, while we 
 sat at supper, to think she was reflecting that a 
 substantial meal was by way of being a novelty 
 to my lover. It hurt me, that. 
 
 Good httle Miss Niblett ! Though she had let 
 me prepare the supper so that she might have a 
 chance to pester him with questions, she made 
 amends by clearing the things away herself. 
 And shut the door behind her! That was the 
 first time he kissed me. After all that has hap- 
 pened since, the scene remains clear and living 
 to me — the little lamp-lit room, half studio, half 
 parlour, the scent of the mignonette in the open 
 window, and the Promised Land I saw beyond. 
 When I am old and grey, it will be living to me 
 still — his voice, his touch, and the joy that was 
 singing in my heart. 
 
 And by-and-by we all went out. *'I have pen- 
 nies to spend," pleaded my lover, "let's be lav- 
 ish!" Could I be wise on such a night? Away 
 we sped from Montparnasse into the Paris where 
 the cabs darted and the cafes glittered; and we 
 had syrups and fizzy waters under the trees in the 
 starlight, and made believe that we were rich. I 
 thought Miss Niblett must have been in love her- 
 self once upon a time — she was so tactful. It was 
 a long ramble that we took. Like children we
 
 THE PRINCE IN THE FAIRY TALE 213 
 
 joked outside a jeweller's window, pretending to 
 choose the costliest of engagement rings ; like va- 
 grants we loitered by a great house where a re- 
 ception was being held. Yes, we stood there on 
 the pavement and watched the grand people ar- 
 riving ; and for the first time for hours I remem- 
 bered we were poor. 
 
 "Why aren't we going to a party? How lovely 
 it would be!" 
 
 "Are you keen on parties?" my lover asked, 
 "Perhaps I could take you to one this week. 
 Shall I try?" 
 
 "A party like that?" I laughed. "Yes, please!" 
 
 "Ah, well," he replied, "I can't guarantee that 
 it will be quite like that. Still, I guess it will be 
 rather fun. Will Miss Niblett go, too?" 
 
 "I?" she exclaimed. "Don't talk nonsense!" 
 
 "I wonder," he said, "which is the best place 
 in this city to hire a suit of dress-clothes for the 
 evening. ]My social gaieties have given me no 
 cause to find out." 
 
 That was all. We turned homeward. I 
 thought with Miss Niblett that he had been talk- 
 ing nonsense. Imagine how surprised I was to 
 hear him revive the subject after a day or two. 
 
 "Well, it's all right," he said; "I've managed 
 it. We're invited." 
 
 "Invited?" I echoed. "Invited where?"
 
 214 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 "Why, to the festivity to-morrow night." 
 
 "But," I cried, "you didn't really mean it, did 
 you? You didn't suppose I'd go? The people 
 are strangers to me." 
 
 "Oh, that's nothing," he answered. "In So- 
 ciety they often go to strangers' parties. It's 
 rather chic." 
 
 "Well, we aren't in Society," I reminded him. 
 "I'm not chic. I can't go junketing with a lot 
 of students I've never seen before." 
 
 "You'll never be a bohemian, Rosie," he said; 
 *'you don't seem to catch on to the tone of the 
 quarter at all. Now, do come ! If you're a good 
 girl 3^ou shall be rewarded. You see I have my 
 clothes ready, and it would disappoint me some 
 not to get a chance to show 'em off." 
 
 He made such a point of it that I promised. 
 But I wasn't pleased. Besides being reluctant to 
 intrude, I was annoyed at the thought of having 
 put him to expense. Also the idea of his going 
 to a party in a hired suit was distasteful to me. 
 I went to my school as cross as two sticks. 
 
 Early the next morning he ran upstairs in a 
 great hurry to borrow our newspaper. I won- 
 dered why he wanted it, for he always read JLe 
 3Iatin, and we took The New York Herald. 
 However, we were busy, and let him have it, 
 though we hadn't looked at it ourselves yet. We
 
 THE PRINCE IN THE FAIRY TALE 215 
 
 were busy examining the white silk frock that I 
 meant to wear. I was for freshening it with some 
 new tulle, and Miss Niblett kept saying that it 
 would be folly to spend the money. The argu- 
 ment lasted such a long time that I didn't go to 
 school at all that day. Miss Niblett won. 
 
 And then behold an afternoon of amazement! 
 As I was boiling the kettle, there came a rap at 
 the door, and whom should I admit but a stylish 
 young woman with a note and a large box ! The 
 note consisted of four words — "Frills for the 
 Fairest," and the box contained — a dress. But, 
 my dears, a dress that I can't describe to you! 
 I should need a page to do it justice; such a dress 
 as the fairy godmother might have created when 
 she changed a pumpkin to a chariot. 
 
 "What does it mean?" I gasped. 
 
 "Is that from him?" stammered Miss Niblett. 
 
 "Oh, don't you know it's from him?" I cried 
 hotly. "Now I see why you wouldn't let me buy 
 the tulle! But how can he have paid for it, and 
 how could you encourage him?" 
 
 I thought she was going to cry. "Rosie," she 
 whimpered, "he told me he wanted to give you 
 a dress, and asked me to help him, but I never 
 imagined he meant a dress like that ; I didn't in- 
 deed! How could I? Oh, my child, look at the 
 name on the lid — look where it comes from!"
 
 216 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 "Mademoiselle will try it on?" suggested the 
 young woman coolly. 
 
 ''What does she say?" I demanded. She spoke 
 French, of course. It is to be hoped she didn't 
 understand English. 
 
 "She says you had better try it on." 
 
 "This is madness," I faltered. I looked from 
 the young woman to Miss Niblett ; I looked from 
 Miss Niblett back to the frock. "Madness!" I 
 repeated — and tried it on. Oh, what a frock! 
 There were exclamations, and pins, and stitches. 
 And in the middle of it all came another bang at 
 the door. 
 
 A porter in uniform stood on the landing. He, 
 too, bore a note and a box; he, too, behaved as 
 if miracles happened every day in the year. 
 
 Four words again — "Suede for the Sweetest." 
 
 Gloves, if you please ! — a stack of them with I 
 can't tell you how many buttons, and the faintest 
 odour of violets. I know now that in the whole 
 of Paris there is only one shop that sells gloves 
 quite like those; and that they are famous all 
 over the world. 
 
 A knock at the door! By this time we opened 
 it speechlessly — we just glanced at each other, 
 and tottered. And again four words — "Bonds 
 for the Best." I tore off the brown paper with
 
 THE PRINCE IN THE FAIRY TALE 217 
 
 hands that shook. Under the brown paper, tissue 
 paper ; under the tissue paper, the ghnt of velvet, 
 pale blue; I drew out a jewel case; I pressed a 
 spring, and 
 
 "Oh, gracious!" screamed Miss Niblett. 
 
 Shimmering on the satin with which the case 
 was lined lay a "rope" of pearls fit for an em- 
 press. 'Not even a string — a "rope"! Three 
 times round the neck it would wind, and hang 
 almost to the waist. We fell on to the sofa, dazed. 
 
 "Are they real?" Miss Niblett panted. "Oh, 
 my dear! Give me the case. My dear! They 
 are real, I'm sure they are. Oh, my dear! they 
 must be worth thousands upon thousands of 
 pounds. What does it all mean?" 
 
 And for the rest of the day not a glimpse of 
 my fiance, not a message from him, JNIonsieur 
 Martin was out, the concierge told us when we 
 inquired. It had been arranged that he should 
 come for me at ten o'clock, and at half-past eight 
 I began to dress. We lit every candle in the flat 
 that evening. At five minutes to ten I was ready 
 — all but one glove. We sat trembling with cu- 
 riosity. Then we heard him — singing on the 
 stairs ; and he tapped as the hour struck. 
 
 "Now!" we both cried. "Perhaps you'll ex- 
 plain?"
 
 218 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 If his clothes weren't his own, he had discov- 
 ered a remarkable establishment; I noted that, 
 despite my dizziness. I fancy I have mentioned 
 how nice-looking he was, but I had never really 
 done him justice before. He was worthy to take 
 his frock out. He stood there admiringly, pre- 
 senting a bouquet. 
 
 "Explain?" he murmured. "Oh, you mean 
 those things I sent you? My dear ladies, pa- 
 tience is one of the most beautiful of virtues — • 
 let us cultivate it ! Rosie, you're a dream of love- 
 liness. I thought perhaps you'd like a few flow- 
 ers. Shall we go?" 
 
 And we went. I had expected to see a cab at 
 the corner; there was a brougham, with a foot- 
 man waiting on the kerb. 
 
 "Not mine," said the Man of Mystery, "I as- 
 sure you. Hired." 
 
 "Like your clothes?" I flashed. 
 
 "Much more so," he said serenely. "Would 
 you prefer the window up, or down, dear?" 
 
 "Either," I said, "if you'll tell me where we're 
 going." 
 
 "Why, to the party," he replied; "I thought 
 you knew." 
 
 "You don't ask me to believe we're going to 
 a student's supper, dressed hke this?"
 
 THE PRINCE IN THE FAIRY TALE 219 
 
 "Well, no," he said. "I guess we'd be a trifle 
 overpowering, eh? But I never told you it was 
 a student's supper. That student was an inven- 
 tion of your own." 
 
 We rolled along luxuriously. To my bewil- 
 derment, it seemed that all the capital was astir 
 that night. Crowds, crowds everywhere in the 
 brilliant streets — Paris was a panorama of lights 
 and faces. After a while we began to move more 
 slowly, other vehicles impeded us. I could hear 
 the jangling of horses' bits, the orders of the po- 
 lice. 
 
 "We're drawing close," said my lover. 
 
 The clatter of hoofs was to right and left of us 
 now. From the window I saw the glare of car- 
 riage lamps, caught ghmpses of great ladies' 
 gowns and jewelled heads. The brougham swung 
 through gates into a courtyard. 
 
 "We are there," said my lover. 
 
 I stood on the steps of a palace. On either 
 side of me soldiers were drawn up, startling, 
 spectacular. Music swelled through the door- 
 way. Flunkeys bowed at our approach. 
 
 "Where have you brought me?" I whispered. 
 "Whose house is this?" 
 
 "He's called the President of the French Re- 
 public," was the answer. "Don't be shy."
 
 220 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 We passed through the dazzle of the hall. The 
 lights blinded me, and the scent of the roses was 
 very strong. I heard great names spoken, names 
 that made me catch my breath. As those awe- 
 inspiring names were uttered, the scene became 
 more and more unreal. And the guests, the 
 guests who bore the historical names, looked quite 
 ordinary, prick-me-and-I-shall-bleed persons. I 
 think that was the most vivid impression I had in 
 the Elysee — the difference between the persons 
 and their names. 
 
 Soon through the throng — among the regal 
 toilettes of the women, and the groups of dis- 
 tinguished, "decorated" men — I grew conscious 
 of the figure of an elderly gentleman, with iron- 
 grey hair and a rather sad smile, moving near to 
 us. I recognised him by the photographs that I 
 had seen — and I knew it was the President him- 
 self. 
 
 "Now," said the voice at my side, "I'm going 
 to present you to him. Try to look as if you 
 liked it." 
 
 For an instant I saw the other end of the glit- 
 tering salon turning very, very small and dim, 
 and I thought I was going to faint. I hadn't 
 the slightest notion whether I ought to put out 
 my hand to him, or kiss his hand, or sweep a 
 curtsey. And if you want to know which of the
 
 THE PRINCE IN THE FAIRY TALE 221 
 
 three I did, I'm unable to tell you ; but my lover 
 affirmed afterwards that I was "real charming" 
 — and you may take his word for it, if you are 
 kind enough. I can't pretend that it convinces 
 me, for I never felt such a gawk in all my days. 
 
 I don't know how long we stayed at the 
 Elysee ; I have a vague recollection of eating an 
 ice. But the next thing I remember clearly is 
 our entering the brougham again, and driving 
 away into the fresh sweet air. Then I leant to- 
 wards him. 
 
 I said, "If you've any consideration for me, 
 you'll answer right off and tell mc whether I'm 
 awake or asleep. I have pinched _nyself three 
 times, and I'm still not sure." 
 
 "You darling!" he laughed. "I was afraid 
 you'd read it all before I confessed ; that was why 
 I stole your newspaper." 
 
 "So you did!" I exclaimed. "Why are you 
 in the paper?" 
 
 "Well, you see, ny Rosie Posy, I bought those 
 pearls for you yesterday," he said, "and I had to 
 get the bank to identify me; I suppose the jewel- 
 lers chattered last night." He took the paper 
 from his overcoat, and there, if you can beheve 
 me, by the light of the little electric lamp over 
 our heads, this is what I saw:
 
 222 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 "An American Millionaire's Son in 
 montparnasse ! 
 
 Mr. Martin McLeod Plays at 
 Poverty ! ! 
 
 The Extraordinary Experiment of a 
 Young Crcesus ! ! ! " 
 
 After that, what remains for me to tell you? 
 What his father said? Well, his father didn't 
 object to me a bit, and always declares that Mar- 
 tin's marriage was the most sensible action of his 
 life. Though that's nonsense. We spend six 
 months of the year in America, and the other six 
 in Europe. Miss Niblett is still in Paris. I am 
 afraid she will never do the "great things," but 
 she will never be hard up any more, for my 
 "prince" is as generous as he is rich. The story 
 I have tried to write is finished. Isn't it as mar- 
 vellous as any fairy tale? But it is true! And 
 I wonder if any other woman has ever been so 
 blessed as I, and thank God for my great happi- 
 ness. 
 
 ''TJie carriage is at the door. Madam/' 
 Oh, is it indeed? Well, I am not going out 
 just yet, for there is a little girl running across
 
 THE PRINCE IN THE FAIRY TALE 223 
 
 the room to say that "Mother has been writing 
 long enough, and must come and play." And 
 there's JNIartie — ^Martie with his arm round me, 
 looking down in my face.
 
 WITH INTENT TO DEFRAUD 
 
 He wished he were dead. It was not a phrase, 
 a verbal extravagance; he wished it. The only 
 time that he was free from anxiety was when 
 he was asleep. His days were full of hard work, 
 and disappointments, and efforts to make civil 
 words do the duty of money; and it often oc- 
 curred to George Collier, when he lay his head 
 on the pillow, that if no to-morrow morning came 
 to disturb him, it would be a blessed state of 
 things. He was a writer of humorous books. 
 
 When he married Eva, he had been nine-and- 
 twenty, and sanguine, though his humour did 
 not command big prices so far. The critics were 
 very kind to liim, and Eva was very admiring; 
 and he went on writing patiently. But by de- 
 grees he saw that his confidence had been prema- 
 ture. And then he saw that his marriage had 
 been premature. And then a child was born; 
 and he gave up his ideals and sank to pot-boiling, 
 and the pot-boiling did not make the pot boil very 
 violently, either. 
 
 A baby added to his embarrassments a good 
 deal. The long-clothes seemed no sooner bought 
 
 224
 
 WITH INTENT TO DEFRAUD 225 
 
 than it needed short-clothes; and before he had 
 recovered from the cost of these, it had grown 
 out of them. The nurse appeared to lie awake 
 all night thinking what she could ask for next, 
 and she was a superior person, with imagination. 
 
 To-day there were school fees to be paid, and 
 Eva was no longer admiring, and their address 
 was Pandora Road, Balham. The little house 
 to the right was called "Broadlands," and the 
 one to the left was called "The Towers"; and 
 Colher, in a fit of moroseness, had labelled their 
 own house, "The Hut," and made enemies among 
 the neighbours. 
 
 Yes, Eva's sjTnpathy had worn out, like the 
 cheap drawing-room carpet. Balham and Toot- 
 ing had got on her nerves, perhaps; or George, 
 the failure, was a different man from the popular 
 humorist with whom she had pictured herself 
 driving to brilliant receptions in fashionable 
 gowns. Anyhow, when he reflected that there 
 had been a time when secretly he wrote poetry 
 about her, he turned hot. 
 
 She was a pale, slight woman, with grey eyes 
 and fluffy hair, and a red flannel dressing-grown 
 in the morning. After luncheon, when she made 
 her toilette, the grey eyes acquired a soulfulness 
 that came out of a phial, and nobody would have 
 suspected the tart and vulgar reproaches that
 
 226 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 could fall from her lips. Had she been what she 
 looked, he thought sometimes, contemplating her 
 wonderingly when an acquaintance was pres- 
 ent, his courage wouldn't have deserted him so 
 soon. But, if he had confessed that she weighed 
 on him, the acquaintance would have considered 
 him an unappreciative brute ; she looked too wist- 
 ful, and delicate, and fragile to weigh on anyone. 
 He was forty years of age, and soberly and 
 deliberately he wished he were dead. Only one 
 thing deterred him from making away with him- 
 self in a painless fashion; it was the knowledge 
 that he would leave her and Chick unprovided 
 for. 
 
 This was his frame of mind when he came to 
 project a fraud. He saw his way to dying com- 
 fortably while safeguarding Chick and Eva from 
 want. That is to say, he saw his way if he could 
 raise the money necessary to pay the premium; 
 he proposed to assure his life and commit suicide. 
 
 The curious part of it was, that he had always 
 been a very scrupulous man, "as honest as the 
 day" — that day that nobody remembers. He 
 had never wronged anyone by so much as six- 
 pence, and could have confronted a cross-exam- 
 ination without a tremor. People had often said 
 that he was "too conscientious to get on." Yet
 
 WITH INTENT TO DEFRAUD 227 
 
 now he was meditating robbery on an extensive 
 scale and barely perceiving his defection. 
 
 A man whom he knew very well, and who fre- 
 quently dropped in of an evening, was Mr. Hor- 
 ace Orkney, a solicitor. George was not sensible 
 of any strong esteem for him, but — perhaps for 
 that reason — Orkney looked the likeliest person 
 for what he wanted ; and one afternoon he betook 
 himself to the gentleman's office. 
 
 "I have," he said, when greetings had been ex- 
 changed, "come on rather delicate business. I 
 needn't tell you that what I am going to say is 
 in confidence." 
 
 "Quite so," said Orkney, playing with the ends 
 of his moustache. 
 
 "The fact is, things aren't going well; I'm 
 
 deadly tired of it all, and Well, the truth is, 
 
 I'm anxious to make away with myself." 
 
 The lawyer was only thirty-six, and he started. 
 To make away with yourself? Oh, non- 
 
 art 
 
 sense 
 
 I mean what I say," insisted Collier; "don't 
 imagine I'm talking through my hat — I haven't 
 come here to waste your time. But my life isn't 
 assured. You see the difficulty. I've got to 
 think of my wife and child, and they'd be prac- 
 tically penniless." 
 
 "Assure it," suggested Mr. Orkney, with a
 
 628 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 shrug; "I should certainly assure my life, in any 
 case, if I were you. But, my dear Collier, do let 
 
 me dissuade you from such a — such a 'Pon 
 
 my word!" He pulled out his monogrammed 
 handkerchief, diffusing an agreeable odour of 
 white rose. "You upset me very much." 
 
 "I won't trouble you with my arguments; I 
 haven't come to make a sensation, and be talked 
 round, and that kind of thing. My mind is made 
 up, and I know my own mind better than any- 
 body can tell it to me. You say, 'assure'; the 
 point is, I can't assure, because I can't put my 
 hands on the money." 
 
 *'Oh," said Orkney. "What did you think of 
 assuring for?" 
 
 "While I am about it I want to make a proper 
 provision; I want to arrange for an income of, 
 say, four or five hundred. For them to get as 
 much as that, from a safe investment, the pre- 
 mium would be pretty stiff. A year's premium 
 would come to — well, I reckon it three hundred 
 and twenty pounds. Now, my idea was " 
 
 "Was — what?" asked the solicitor, blandly. 
 
 George was nervous. His gaze wandered. 
 
 "My idea was, that you might be willing to 
 advance the sum, with a view to doing me a turn, 
 and making a bit at my death. I — I'm eager to 
 make the proposal as attractive as I can. If
 
 WITH INTENT TO DEFRAUD 229 
 
 you'll let me have three hundred and twenty, I'll 
 fix up my Will at once and leave you a thousand. 
 What do you say? I think it's fair." 
 
 Horace Orkney tapped his fingers together 
 pensively. 
 
 "One likes to do a pal a turn, of course, but 
 What company are you thinking of, any- 
 how? You seem to overlook the fact that in a 
 case of suspected suicide " 
 
 "I've overlooked nothing — I've thought it aU 
 out, and I know exactly what I shall do. A 
 cousin of my wife's has a cottage in Kent, on the 
 Darenth. We've often stayed there. The lawn 
 slopes to the river, and there's an Indian canoe. 
 No more sohtary place could exist. Now, I can 
 easily contrive so that we get an invitation to go 
 down for a week. One evening after working 
 hard all day, I shall say that I'm going out for 
 a breath of fresh air ; I shall ask what time they're 
 going to have supper, and set my watch by their 
 clock, so that I 'mayn't be late.' I shall ask my 
 wife to remind me of something I have to do in 
 the morning, and skip through the window in the 
 highest spirits. Well, the canoe upsets. Every- 
 body knows I could never learn to swim." 
 
 "But your intentions may change, my friend! 
 And if they do, where are my three hundred and
 
 230 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 twenty pounds? In the natural course of things, 
 you may live for thirty or forty years." 
 
 "I thought," said ColHer, "of waiting till the 
 spring; but if you don't think it'd look suspicious, 
 the accident can occur next month. There's not 
 much risk of my intentions changing in a month!" 
 
 There was silence. 
 
 "I'll turn it over in my mind," said Orkney, 
 at last. "Now you must let me send you away; 
 I'm busy." 
 
 Having turned it over in his mind, he agreed. 
 He provided George Collier with the sum of 
 three hundred and twenty pounds to take out a 
 policy, and George made a Will by which Hor- 
 ace Orkney was bequeathed one thousand. The 
 rest was left to Eva, who, to give her her due, was 
 an affectionate mother. 
 
 The humorist was now comparatively content. 
 It was already November, and he was to die in 
 April. He had had hopes that Orkney would 
 pronounce it safe for him to take the step earlier, 
 but on reflection Orkney had said that the spring 
 would be best, after all. 
 
 It was a disappointment, but George was too 
 grateful to complain of a crumpled rose-leaf. He 
 had borne the slings and arrows so hopelessly 
 that he told himself he would be a rotter to kick 
 at five more months; he was not unreasonable.
 
 WITH INTENT TO DEFRAUD 231 
 
 And, as the weeks wore away, his satisfaction in- 
 creased. He was a weary man looking forward 
 to a perpetual holiday. 
 
 There was a serious epidemic of influenza in 
 London that year. Everybody who could afford 
 to do so was flying to the watering-places, or the 
 Continent; and among those who remained in 
 town and were laid low, was ]Mrs. ColHer. This 
 was at Christmas. 
 
 The doctor did not, at the beginning, regard 
 her case gravely. But she got worse, in spite of 
 his optimism, and after a fortnight in bed she 
 died. 
 
 George was inexpressibly shocked. Though 
 he had long since outlived his illusions about her, 
 she had been his wife, his daily companion. To 
 realise that she was gone dismayed him. He re- 
 membered the girl, and shed tears at the grave 
 of the woman. Xot analysing, not drawing the 
 distinction, but just grieving honestly. 
 
 After she was buried, as he sat in the quiet 
 parlour, smoking at night, it occurred to him 
 that as the child would now be doubly an orphan, 
 he must arrange where she was to live when April 
 came. In the circumstances she would be an 
 heiress, and he wanted her to be suitably brought 
 up. Fortunately, he had a maiden sister who 
 could be depended on to carry out his wishes in
 
 232 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 this respect. He nodded thankfully, reflecting 
 how much troubled he would have been for 
 Chick's future otherwise. 
 
 And January came to an end, and February 
 began. And February waned; and it was March. 
 
 George was surprised to note how rapidly 
 time had passed since the funeral. He put 
 "March 1st" at the top of a letter veiy slowly, 
 and sat looking at it with startled eyes. A month 
 more, and the consummation would be reached. 
 Poor little Chick, he would have to leave her ! 
 
 Oddly, now that the end of it all was so near, 
 he felt less eager than he had done. He had 
 been conscious of late, of a certain enjoyment 
 in life — a new enjoyment. The quiet parlour, 
 with his pipe, and a novel, had been pleasant. 
 He had gone up to his room at night without a 
 groan, and seated himself at his desk in the morn- 
 ing with an unfamiliar zest. Only a month! 
 Well, let him make the most of it ! 
 
 But that was easier to say than to do. Death 
 no longer figured in his thoughts as a perpetual 
 holiday; now that he was a widower, it figured 
 as a skeleton, and thrust itself into the cosiest 
 hours. Perhaps Chick was on his knee and he 
 was stroking her hair — and the skeleton clanked. 
 Perhaps he was writing, in the small hours, in- 
 terested in his work — and the skeleton mocked
 
 WITH INTENT TO DEFRAUD 233 
 
 him. What was the good of Chick's love, when 
 he had to leave her directly? What was the good 
 of revising a chapter, when he would be bones 
 before the book was done? 
 
 He shuddered. It was no use blinking the 
 truth; the fact was, the conditions had altered. 
 He would have been a cheerful man to-day, for 
 all his pecuniary worries, if he had been allowed ; 
 and the worries themselves looked less formi- 
 dable, somehow. Eva had made the worst of 
 everything, and — Heaven forgive him! — had al- 
 ways been a muddler. It was amazing what a 
 difference her removal made. He was satisfied 
 with life now, and — he knew he did not want to 
 die. 
 
 At last he determined to go to Orkney and beg 
 to be released. It was an odious task, but the 
 alternative was more obnoxious still; and he 
 went. 
 
 Orkney looked at him in blank disapproval 
 when he had stammered to a conclusion. 
 
 "This is very unbusiness-like," he said, "very 
 unbusiness-like indeed You put me in a most 
 awkward position, Collier. I don't want to see 
 you die, of course — I — I hope I have a heart — 
 but an agreement is an agreement, and I have 
 pressing need for a thousand pounds. As it 
 happens, I've got a bill "
 
 234> THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 "You see," said George, helplessly, "there's 
 the child! I don't like to leave her alone in the 
 world." 
 
 "I thought you told me, at the time of your 
 wife's death, that she could go to an aunt in 
 Dorking?" 
 
 "Yes ; I did. But Well, I'm very fond of 
 
 her. The parting is devilish hard." 
 
 "I don't see why it should be any harder this 
 morning than when you came here and made 
 your proposal. I did a friendly thing for you, 
 and I must say this isn't at all fair treatment. 
 It wasn't an agreement that I could enforce, you 
 know — I relied on your honour. And now you 
 put me off with empty excuses." 
 
 "Don't say that," faltered George. "To tell 
 you the honest truth — I don't know how it is — 
 since I lost my wife I — I'm not so depressed. I 
 feel lighter, and there's a different aspect to 
 things. I can't explain it." 
 
 "No!" said Orkney, firmly, "I won't hear it. 
 I won't have the blame laid at the door of that 
 poor little woman. This is cowardly. Collier. 
 Be a man and say that you've changed your mind 
 and are trying to back out." 
 
 "Very well, then," replied George, "I've 
 changed my mind. I want to live, and to pay
 
 WITH INTENT TO DEFRAUD 235 
 
 you the thousand pounds as soon as I can get 
 it together." 
 
 The solicitor smiled finely. 
 
 "It was a very fair rate of interest for the 
 time agreed upon. But for a period of years 
 
 Anyhow, we needn't discuss the point! So 
 
 far as I understand your position, there would 
 be very little prospect of your repaying even the 
 principal." 
 
 "In other words, you won't consent?" 
 
 "I regret," said Orkney, "I regret very much 
 that you should have put such a suggestion for- 
 ward, because I am unable to consent to it, and 
 it's a peculiarly painful one to refuse. I don't 
 think it was dehcate of you. Collier; it wasn't 
 good taste." 
 
 " 'Good taste' be damned!" said George hotly. 
 "Finally, you insist on your pound of flesh?" 
 
 "Finally," returned Orkney, rising, "I repeat 
 that if you're a man of honour, there's only one 
 thing for you to do." 
 
 He touched the bell, and George slunk out 
 into the street. 
 
 It was April already; he had either to break 
 his undertaking, or to fulfil it without delay. In- 
 stinctively he saw the literary value of the situa- 
 tion. But the humorist felt no desire to treat it
 
 236 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 humorously. He found himself, on the contrary, 
 perpending it as an experiment in realism. 
 
 To the devil with literature! He must die or 
 tell Orkney that he was going to sell him ! Which 
 should it be? One course was ghastly, and the 
 other was disgraceful. 
 
 He vacillated hourly for a fortnight. And 
 Orkney, meanwhile, seemed ubiquitous. George 
 could not take a walk without meeting him ; and 
 Orkney always stopped and spoke, and asked 
 him very coldly how he was. 
 
 George used to struggle for composure, but 
 not with success. Then the solicitor would ele- 
 vate his ej^ebrows and sigh significantly; and 
 Collier went his way, feeling despicable and 
 ashamed. 
 
 "The Pound of Flesh," "To Be or Not to Be," 
 — what a lot of titles suggested themselves for 
 the story that might be written ! The thought of 
 it obsessed him; and one evening he actually be- 
 gan it. The impulse was foolish, but the occupa- 
 tion was fascinating, and he wrote with unaccus- 
 tomed ease. He treated the subject in a serious 
 narrative. 
 
 At one o'clock he came to a point where he had 
 to determine what the end was going to be. How 
 was it to end? He rose and paced the room, re- 
 filhng his pipe. He could not light it — ^it was
 
 WITH INTENT TO DEFRAUD 237 
 
 blocked. He wasted five minutes on it, fuming. 
 If he didn't smoke, he couldn't think. 
 
 Formerly he had annexed his wife's hairpins 
 in such emergencies; and, as a last resource, it 
 occurred to him that, if he searched in the ward- 
 robe where her belongings had been put away, he 
 might find some hairpins. 
 
 The key was on his own key-chain, and he 
 went upstairs. The dead woman's trifles had 
 been laid on the shelves. He saw her work-bas- 
 ket, and her dressing-case, and the set of brushes, 
 with "E" on the backs in silver, that he had given 
 her on her last birthday. There was a hat that 
 she had been trimming when she was taken ill, 
 with the needle still sticking in it. 
 
 He paused. Momentarily, what he was doing 
 seemed sacrilege. Then he opened the dressing- 
 case and lifted the tray. 
 
 There were hairpins scattered at the bottom. 
 There was also a bundle of letters, tied with rib- 
 bon, and directed in a handwriting that looked 
 familiar. George stared at it. Was he making 
 a mistake, or What on earth had the cor- 
 respondence been about? He turned white, and 
 pulled the ribbon off. 
 
 The dates that the letters bore were of the last 
 two years. There was nothing criminal in them; 
 but they were a man's confidential communica-
 
 238 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 tions to a woman he loved. They spoke of the 
 writer's "sympathy," of his regret that he could 
 do nothing to "alleviate the dreariness of her 
 life." There were frequent allusions to what 
 "might have been." And they began, "Dearest 
 Mrs. Collier," and were signed, "Yours with de- 
 votion, Horace Orkney." 
 
 George stumbled out of the bedroom and re- 
 turned to the parlour ; he sank into his chair there, 
 with knitted brows, pondering. After a while 
 he picked up his pen again; but he did not con- 
 tinue the story. He wrote : 
 
 "Dear Sir, — I restore to you herewith cer- 
 tain letters of yours, for which I have no use. I 
 perceive that the late Mrs. Collier's untimely de- 
 cease frustrated your hope of marrying a widow 
 whose natural attractions would have been en- 
 hanced by the possession of nine thousand 
 pounds, and I tender you my condolence. The 
 bequest in my Will will stand. But, as you once 
 pointed out, I may, in the ordinary course of 
 things, hve for forty years longer. Believe me 
 I have every intention of doing so if I can." 
 
 And he did, and became a very successful man.
 
 DEAD VIOLETS 
 
 "If you ever want me, write to me — I'd come 
 to you from the end of the world!" he had said; 
 and she had answered, "I shall always want you, 
 but I shall never wTite, and you must never 
 come." She was married. 
 
 It was in May that they parted; they parted 
 on the day of her owning that she cared for him. 
 The virtue was hers, not his ; yet because he loved 
 her, and realised that she was too good a woman 
 to defy her conscience and be happy, he acqui- 
 esced in her decision — refrained from pleading to 
 her, refrained from trying to see her again. 
 
 His only indulgence was to send violets to her 
 home in Paris for the ninth of December; the 
 ninth of December was her birthday, and violets, 
 she had once told him, were her favourite flower. 
 He did not scribble any greeting with them, did 
 not even enclose a card; he was sure that she 
 would know who sent them, and it lightened his 
 pain to feel that she would know. Indeed, to 
 recall himself to her thus mutely was a joy, the 
 only joy that he had experienced since the day 
 of the "good-bye"; almost it was as if he were 
 
 2?t)
 
 240 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 going to her, that moment in the London florist's 
 when he held the flowers that would reach her 
 hands; she did not seem so lost to him for the 
 moment, the separation did not seem so blank. 
 
 The next year, also, he sent violets for the 
 ninth of December. His emotions it is true, were 
 less vivid this time, but he was glad to show her 
 that he was faithful ; besides, the prettiness of the 
 reminder pleased him. 
 
 And the third year he sent them chiefly because 
 he felt that she would be disappointed if he ap- 
 peared to forget. 
 
 So it had grown to be his custom to send vio- 
 lets to her for her birthday, though what was 
 once an impulse of devotion was now a lie — the 
 weakness of a sentimentalist reluctant to wound 
 a woman, and his self-esteem, by admitting that 
 he had exaggerated the importance of his feel- 
 ings. And each December the woman had wel- 
 comed the lie with smiles and tears and believed 
 that he loved her still. 
 
 When five years had passed he met her again. 
 It was in Bond Street, and he had sent the violets 
 to Paris two or three days before. 
 
 "Phil!" 
 
 As he turned and saw her, he thought how 
 much better-looking she used to be. She was 
 young still, no more than thirty, but she had
 
 DEAD VIOLETS 241 
 
 longed for him on every day of the five years, 
 and her tears had blotted some of the girhshness 
 from her face. As he tm-ned and saw her, the 
 woman thought how his mouth had twitched 
 when he said, "I'd come to you from the end of 
 the world." It is among the unacknowledged 
 truths that sentimentality may create as much 
 ferment as enduring love, and he had suffered 
 even more violently than she, though he had not 
 suffered so long. 
 
 "What are you doing here in December? 
 You're the last person I should have expected 
 to see," she said. 
 
 "I go South to-morrow." 
 
 "Lucky man!" 
 
 "And you?" 
 
 "We're living here now." 
 
 "Really? You've left Paris? How long?" 
 
 "We've been here since October; we're flat- 
 hunting." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 They stood looking into each other's eyes, 
 neither knowing what to say next. Her heart 
 was thumping terribly, and she felt very happy 
 and very frightened. ]\Iore than once she had 
 been tempted to write to him that her courage 
 had broken down; all resistance seemed to have 
 left her as she stood looking into his eyes again.
 
 242 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 "Flats," she added in a voice of composure, 
 "are so abominably dear in London." 
 
 "Where are you staying?" 
 
 "In apartments — Bayswater." 
 
 "Bayswater must be a change from Neuilly? 
 It was a jolly little place you had in Neuilly!" 
 
 "It was ratlier jolly, wasn't it? My — my hus- 
 band's people wished us to come over; thej^ 
 thought they might put him into something over 
 here. Of course, in Paris it was cheap, but there 
 were no prospects." 
 
 "I understand." 
 
 "There's some talk of a secretaryship if a 
 company is floated." It was so natural to be 
 telling him everything now they had met. "It 
 would be a very good thing for us." 
 
 "I hope it'll come off." 
 
 "Yes. . . . Well, how are you? I'm always 
 seeing your name — 'one of the novels of the 
 year' !" 
 
 "They aren't so good as the novels that nobody 
 read." 
 
 "Not quite. Why?" 
 
 "I'm turning out what's wanted now. One 
 has to live." 
 
 "Yes. . . . Still, isn't it a pity to— to " 
 
 "Oh, one gets tired!" he said. "Ideals make
 
 DEAD VIOLETS 2^3 
 
 lonely dwelling-places. . . . Let me take you 
 somewhere and give you some tea.'* 
 
 "I ought to go to some shops; I'm up West 
 to work." 
 
 " 'Work' ? Spending money ?" 
 
 "Earning it — I'm doing fashion articles." 
 
 "You? Do you mean it? Well, come and 
 have some tea first." 
 
 It was very early, and there were vacant tables 
 in the alcoves. As he sat opposite her, Orlebar 
 thought what a fraud it was that the things one 
 craved for only came to pass when one had grown 
 resigned to doing without them. How he had 
 besought God for some such chance as this — • 
 what a spectacle he had made of himself about 
 her during six unforgettable months ! And now 
 he was sipping his tea without emotion, and ob- 
 serving that her clothes compared unfavourably 
 with the other women's in the room! In that 
 moment Orlebar saw the humiliating truth — 
 knew that he had lived his great love down and 
 deceived himself for years. But he didn't want 
 to see — he preferred to deceive himself now. It 
 is often more congenial to be an ass than to ack- 
 nowledge that you have been one. 
 
 "It's a long time since we had tea together, 
 Lucy!" 
 
 "Yes," she said.
 
 244 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 "Well, what have you got to tell me?" 
 
 "I think I told you everything in a breath; 
 
 at least What have you been doing all the 
 
 time?" 
 
 "Trying to kill it." 
 
 "You're working in London now, eh?" 
 
 "Yes, I've chambers in the Temple. Rather 
 swagger compared with the little shanty in the 
 rue Ravignan. How did you come to take up 
 journalism?" 
 
 "Someone suggested it — and my twaddle 
 seemed to do. It's pretty sickening." 
 
 "What's the idea — it doesn't pay very well, 
 does it?" 
 
 "Not on my paper; I get a guinea a week, but 
 Oh, why should I bore you with all that?" 
 
 "You don't 'bore' me, Lucy." 
 
 "Well, I — I prefer to do it. You don't know 
 everything; his people have never forgiven his 
 marriage — thej^ think marriage has handicapped 
 him so badly — and, you may be sure, they blame 
 me more than him; it's always the daughter-in- 
 law's fault! We've only their allowance to live 
 on — it isn't pleasant to be kept by people who 
 resent your existence." 
 
 "Poor little woman! 'No, I didn't know." 
 
 "Oh, it's not so bad as all that! Still, I'm 
 glad to be making something, even if it's only a
 
 DEAD VIOLETS 245 
 
 guinea a week. I don't feel so uncomfortable 
 when I meet them, not such a dead weight. We 
 have to go there to dinner on Sundays, and it's 
 rather awful — they tell me what a splendid ca- 
 reer he would have had if he hadn't married." 
 
 "Damn 'em!" said Orlebar. 
 
 "I do — every Sunday afternoon, from the 
 soup to the coffee. Well" — she leant her elbows 
 on the table, and smiled — "have I changed 
 much?" 
 
 "Xo," he said, bravely. "But — but this is 
 brutal hard lines — I didn't dream that you had 
 things hke that to put up with! You always 
 seemed so lighthearted in Paris." 
 
 "I didn't meet his people in Paris. Besides, 
 things alter in five years; I think — Oh!" she 
 broke off, "it's ridiculous to talk about it to you, 
 I don't know why I'm doing it!" 
 
 "Have you anybody else to talk to?" 
 
 "No," she admitted, slowly, "that's it. I can't 
 talk to him because — well, they're his own peo- 
 ple, for one thing; and, besides — well, of course 
 marriage has handicapped him, and I suppose 
 he knows it as well as they do." 
 
 "Do you mean — ? . . . You don't get on 
 now?" 
 
 She gave a shrug, and traced lines on the cloth 
 with her spoon. "What do you supx^ose I inean?"
 
 246 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 "I am so sorry for you, dear!" 
 
 "Oh, I daresay it's my fault. I suppose I 
 don't do all I ought to make up for what I've 
 cost him; it's difficult to do all you ought when 
 — when — " her voice snapped — "when you 
 sometimes wish to God that you hadn't done so 
 much!" 
 
 "Perhaps you'd have done better to come to 
 me, after all," said Orlebar, heavily; he couldn't 
 think of anything else to say. 
 
 "I tried to be a good woman — I thought you'd 
 forget me ; I wanted to forget you. Why didn't 
 you let me forget you? Why did you send me 
 those flowers every year?" 
 
 "Were you vexed with me for sending them?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "I'm glad. I sent some to Paris the other 
 day." 
 
 "Did you? I wondered if you would; I've been 
 rather impatient for my birthdays. What a con- 
 fession — a woman impatient for her birthdays! 
 I never meant to see you any more, though; I 
 swore I wouldn't." 
 
 "But you wanted to, didn't you?" 
 
 Her cup was neglected now ; she leant back in 
 the chair, her hands clenched in her lap. 
 
 "Didn't you?" he repeated.
 
 DEAD VIOLETS 247; 
 
 "Oh, don't!" she said in her throat. "I can't 
 bear it, Phil!" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "The hfe — everything! I'm tired of it all." 
 
 "Chuck it!" he muttered; "come away with 
 me to-morrow!" 
 
 She didn't speak; she tried to believe that she 
 was struggling. The pause seemed to Orlebar 
 to last a long time while he sat wishing that he 
 hadn't said it. The w^aitress inquired if they re- 
 quired anything else, and put the check on the 
 table, and took her tip. The place was filling, 
 and a ladies' orchestra began to twang their 
 mandolins. 
 
 "Do you want me?" she asked, raising her 
 eyes. 
 
 "Do I 'want' you!" What else could he re- 
 ply? 
 
 "Very well, then." She nodded. "I'll go! 
 . . . Let's get out of this — do you mind? — my 
 head aches." 
 
 He knew dismally that her consent had come 
 too late, that there would be nothing now to com- 
 pensate him for the scandal — no months, or 
 weeks, or even minutes of rapture. They got 
 up, and he put the half-crown on the desk, and 
 followed her into the street. 
 
 After they had strolled a few yards in silence.
 
 248 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 he said, as it seemed obligatory, "You've made 
 me very happy." 
 
 She answered, "I'll tiy to." He wished that 
 she had said anything else — it was painful. 
 
 "We'd better have a cab. Where shall we go 
 — will you come to the Temple?" 
 
 "I think I'd like to go home; you can drive 
 there with me," 
 
 "Can you get away in the morning — or shall 
 I put it off?" he asked in the hansom. 
 
 "No, I can get away — he won't be back till the 
 evening." 
 
 "Back from where?" 
 
 "He went down to his people to-day — they're 
 at Brighton now. What time's the train?" 
 
 "Ten o'clock — from Charing Cross ; I was go- 
 ing by Folkestone and Boulogne. Are you a 
 bad sailor?" 
 
 "No, I like it. We'll meet at Charing Cross, 
 then?" 
 
 "Yes; in the first-class waiting-room — if 
 you're sure it's not too early for you?" 
 
 "It's all right. . . . Is it real, Phil? Half an 
 hour ago we hadn't seen each other; and now — 
 it's to be all our lives! Oh, I hope you'll never 
 be sorry! I wonder?" 
 
 "That's unjust." 
 
 "Is it?" Her eyes reminded him that he ought
 
 DEAD VIOLETS 249 
 
 to kiss her, and he bent his head. . . . He pitied 
 her acutely as he felt her tears on his face — 
 hated himself for lying to her. 
 
 "Cheer up, dearest! Remember how we care 
 for each other," he said. 
 
 The effort of affecting joy wore him out as 
 they drove on. Intensely he wished that they 
 had found a quicker cab ; he wanted a drink bad- 
 ly, wanted to light a pipe and give way to his 
 gloom. Her hand, which he clasped, seemed to 
 him to grow larger and heavier through the long 
 drive; and when at last they parted at her door, 
 he thanked heaven for the right to heave a sigh, 
 for the freedom to look as moody as he felt. 
 
 Five years ago. If it had only happened five 
 — four years ago! The pathos of the situation 
 took him by the throat. What a rotten thing life 
 was! Again his mind reverted to the months 
 when he had been torn with longing for her — the 
 longing just to watch her, to listen to her, no 
 matter what she said. And now he had kissed 
 her for the first time — as a duty. That aban- 
 donment of despair had played havoc with him, 
 yet he wished that it had lasted — it would have 
 been worth while, he thought. God! the ecstasy 
 that would have been thrilling in him now if he 
 had suffered like that until this afternoon!
 
 250 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 At the Club he ordered a "big whisky and a 
 small soda." 
 
 "You're off to Rome soon, aren't you?" said a 
 man presently. "You pampered novelists have 
 all the luck!"' 
 
 "Yes," said Orlebar. The man was the Editor 
 of a daily paper; it occurred to the novelist that 
 he was about to provide the paper with some sur- 
 prising copy; also, that the editorial greeting 
 would be less informal when they met again. 
 
 What a deuce of a lot of talk there would be ! 
 the damage it was going to do him socially! So- 
 cially? It would injure him financially, too; he 
 recognised it for the first time as he surveyed the 
 room. There was McKinnell, of the Mai/fcdr, 
 ragging a waiter because the toast was cold; Or- 
 lebar' s new novel was to run through the May- 
 fair before it came out in book form. If he knew 
 anything of McKinnell, that highly respectable 
 gentleman would refuse to pollute the pages of 
 his journal with the fiction of a co-respondent. 
 And McKinnell's refusal wouldn't be singular, 
 though he might express it with singular offen- 
 siveness. Even among good fellows, it would be, 
 "Sorry, but we daren't run you just now in a 
 paper for household reading — we should get no 
 end of protests. Awful rot, of course, but there 
 it is!" Five hundred pounds gone! Five hun-
 
 DEAD VIOLETS 251 
 
 dred pounds was a large sum ; he was no million- 
 aire. 
 
 And his books? The sale of his next books 
 would drop in this virtuous country when he had 
 outraged the Eleventh Commandment. If she 
 had been "Lady" somebody the public would 
 have called the case "romantic" — it would have 
 been a big advertisement then — but without the 
 glamour of a title they would only call it "dis- 
 graceful." For one reader gained by the scan- 
 dal, half a dozen would be lost. What a calamity, 
 his turning into Bond Street this afternoon! 
 
 And how she had jumped at him, he thought 
 with sudden resentment; she hadn't needed much 
 persuasion! Pie had been an idiot to exalt her 
 into a heroine at the beginning — since it had been 
 fated that he was to ruin himself, he might at 
 any rate have done it while he was in love with 
 her! And he hadn't even the excuse of youth 
 now; he was making a mess of his life when he 
 was old enough to know better, when he did know 
 better — he was ruining himself against his will! 
 He had another whisky-and-soda, and wondered 
 if there was any chance of his hearing that she 
 had changed her mind. Confound it, she didn't 
 know his address! And anvhow there would be 
 no chance; what was she giving up — a husband 
 who didn't want her. If she had had a child, it
 
 252 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 would have been a different thing. A pity she 
 hadn't a family! A husband who didn't want 
 her. And he, Philip Orlebar, was going to take 
 her off his hands. Oh, what a mug's game! If 
 he hadn't gone in to have his hat ironed, he 
 wouldn't have met her. And it hadn't really 
 needed ironing either ! 
 
 He did not remain long in the Club when din- 
 ner was over. After all, he had mentioned that 
 his rooms were in the Temple, and the hope that 
 she might try to communicate with him lingered 
 in spite of common-sense. At the gate he looked 
 towards the porter eagerly, but the porter said 
 nothing, and the shock of disappointment told 
 Orlebar how strong the hope had been. 
 
 His portmanteaux were half-packed, and he 
 spent the evening straining to catch the sound 
 of the bell. Once it rang, but the visitor was 
 only a bore who had dropped in for a drink and 
 a chat. Orlebar loathed the beaming face as he 
 gave him welcome, and, like the Editor, the bore 
 made envious reference to the morrow's j ourney ; 
 he "wished he were in the author's shoes!" Orle- 
 bar was at infinite pains to affect high spirits, for 
 it was undesirable that the man should say after- 
 wards, "I was with him the night before he bolt- 
 ed with her — the poor beggar seemed to have 
 an awful hump." But presently the man said.
 
 DEAD VIOLETS 253 
 
 ■''You seem a cup low to-night, old chap?" The 
 melancholy stroke of the Temple clock had never 
 sounded so lugubrious as in the hours that fol- 
 lowed. 
 
 When he woke in the morning, Orlebar re- 
 membered that there ought to be a half-bottle of 
 Pommery in the bathroom, and he had it in lieu 
 of tea, with some biscuits. The wine lightened 
 his mood a little ; it no longer seemed so hopeless- 
 ly impossible to conceal his regret; and when he 
 strode into the station, it was with a very fair 
 show of impatience. But his heart leapt as he 
 saw that she wasn't there. He sat down, and 
 glanced alternately at the clock and the doors, 
 praying that she wouldn't come. 
 
 She entered just as he was feeling sanguine. 
 
 "My darling," he murmured, "here you are!" 
 
 "Am I late?" 
 
 "I was beginning to be afraid. But there's 
 time enough — I've got the tickets. Where's 
 your luggage?" 
 
 "They've taken it through." 
 
 "We'd better go, then." 
 
 Among the bustle on the platform he could 
 say little more than, "Plow pale you are!" and 
 "Which are your trunks?" Then they were alone, 
 and the door had been slammed, and the train 
 moved out.
 
 254 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 "Darling!" he said again. "WeU?" 
 "Well?" 
 
 "It seems too good to be true." His tone was 
 lifeless. 
 
 "Does it?" 
 
 "Doesn't it to you?" 
 
 "I think it's true," she said, with a tired smile. 
 
 "How pale you are!" he repeated. "Didn't 
 you sleep?" 
 
 "Not much. I've been wondering." 
 
 "'Wondering'? What?" 
 
 "Whether I ought to have said 'no.' What 
 would you have done if I'd said 'no,' Phil? Real- 
 ly?" 
 
 "What can a man do? I suppose I should 
 have had to put up with it." 
 
 She did not reply for a moment. She was 
 gazing straight before her, with a frown. 
 
 "Do you think me a bad woman, Phil?" 
 
 "I think you're the best woman I've ever 
 known." 
 
 "It looks like it, doesn't it?" 
 
 "The force of circumstances! If you had met 
 me before you met him " 
 
 "But I didn't. It's pretty; mean of me to 
 spoil his hfe, isn't it?" 
 
 "I didn't know that he cared so much about 
 you?"
 
 DEAD VIOLETS 255 
 
 "Oh" — she hesitated — "we've quarrelled, like 
 everybody else, but — but he's very fond of me. 
 Of course, it'll be an awful blow. I can't forget 
 it — I've been thinking of it ever since." 
 
 "It just depends . . . the thing you've got to 
 consider is which way you'll be happier yourself. 
 If — I don't know! I suppose there are women 
 who cant go wrong and be happy." 
 
 "I'm thinking of my duty," she faltered. "You 
 know I love you, don't you ? I want you to know 
 it, to keep remembering it all the time. I love 
 you, I love you, I love you! But — " She 
 waited with her heart in her throat. 
 
 "But what?" he asked, moodily. "What were 
 you going to say?" 
 
 Her eyes closed with pain. 
 
 "Eh?" he said. 
 
 "There are his people," she stammered; 
 "they'll feel the disgrace so much. I've been 
 considering everything — I — I didn't know what 
 a wrench it would be." 
 
 "You'll get over it." 
 
 "I'm not sure? Perhaps I shall always — ? 
 Do you think I've . . . made a mistake?" Again 
 she waited breathlessly. If he would only seize 
 her in his arms ! If he would only cry, "Let them 
 all go to the devil, and remember me!" 
 
 "If you feel like that," he said feebly, "of
 
 256 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 course I hardly — I hardly know what I can say 
 to you." 
 
 "You can't tJiinJi: of anything to say?" she 
 pleaded. "There's nothing — nothing I'm over- 
 looking?" 
 
 "There's time; one gets over anything in 
 time," he said, incautiously. 
 
 "Oh, my God!" she moaned. 
 
 She turned to the window, her face as white 
 as a dead woman's. The terror was confirmed 
 that had stolen on her in the cab, that had haunt- 
 ed her throughout the night — confirmed by his 
 tones, his looks, by every answer he had made to 
 her halting falsehoods ; he had learnt to do with- 
 out her, she had given herself unsought ! In the 
 agony of shame that overwhelmed her she could 
 have thrown herself from the compartment ; and 
 it was only her love for him that restrained her 
 — she would not reproach him by deed or word; 
 he shouldn't be burdened by the knowledge of 
 what he had made her suffer. 
 
 "Well," he said, "it's not too late." 
 
 "No," she muttered; "I can't go!" 
 
 His pulses jumped; for an instant he couldn't 
 trust his voice. 
 
 "You must do as you like, I don't want to 
 take you against your will. ... If you wish it, 
 you can go back from Folkestone; I suppose —
 
 DEAD VIOLETS 257 
 
 if he's away — there'd be no harm done, would 
 there?" 
 
 "You're not angry with me ? You won't mind 
 too much?" 
 
 "Don't worry about me — I want you to be 
 happy. To tell you. the truth, I think you're 
 right — you are not the woman to kick over the 
 traces, you'd be too cut up about it. Go back 
 and make the best of a bad business — it'll be 
 easier for you to bear than the other, anyhow I 
 We'll see about a train for you as soon as we get 
 m. 
 
 At Folkestone Harbour they ascertained that 
 there would be an express to Charing Cross at 
 two o'clock, and he paced the platform with her 
 till it was time to say good-bye. Exhilaration 
 had given him an appetite, but she answered 
 that she wasn't hungry; so, as he had missed his 
 boat, he decided to drive to an hotel on the Leas 
 and have an elaborate luncheon when she had 
 gone. His glances at the playbills on the walls 
 showed him that San Toy was at the Pleasure 
 Gardens, and he foresaw himself cheerfully 
 among the audience in the evening. He was 
 feeling on a sudden twenty years younger, and, 
 hard as he strove to acquire a manner of tender 
 gravity, she discerned the improvement in his 
 spirits every time he spoke.
 
 258 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 Her train arrived in town at a few minutes to 
 four, and she re-entered the lodging-house some 
 hours earlier than her husband. But the fire had 
 gone out, and she had to wait shivering till it 
 was lighted before she could burn the note that 
 she had left on the mantelpiece for him. A little 
 box addressed to her had been delivered during 
 her absence ; when the slatternly servant left her 
 alone at last, the woman dared to touch it — and 
 fell to sobbing as if her heart would burst. It 
 contained the violets that Orebar had sent in 
 token of his love. 
 
 The box had been redirected from Paris. Ow- 
 ing to the delay, the violets, now that they 
 reached her, were quite dead.
 
 THE FAVOURITE PLOT 
 
 With Variations 
 
 The financier was cracking walnuts when the 
 curate arrived. 
 
 "Hallo, boy!" he said. "Why didn't you come 
 to dinner?'* 
 
 "How do you do, Uncle Murray? Oh, it was 
 impossible to come in time for dinner. I had a 
 Meeting at six o'clock — and it's a long way from 
 Plaistow to Park Lane. Are you quite well?" 
 
 "Pretty fit," said Murray Pybus. "Glad to 
 see you again. I was going to drop you a line ; I 
 go to New York next month. Help yourself to 
 port." 
 
 "Thank you, I don't drink wine," said Cuth- 
 bert, a shade reproachfully. 
 
 "I forgot," said Pybus. "Cigar? But you 
 don't smoke either! Well, take an armchair; 
 make yourself comfortable. How's Plaistow?" 
 
 The curate cleared his throat. "I was anxious 
 to have a talk with you. Uncle Murray, on a very 
 important subject." 
 
 "So you wrote me. Well, I know your im- 
 portant subjects; you needn't go into details; of 
 
 2.59
 
 ^60 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 course it's a bona fide case. How much do you 
 want?" 
 
 "Frankly, I am nervous," faltered his nephew. 
 
 "Better try the port," counselled Pybus. "No? 
 All right; stick to your colours, even if they're 
 a blue ribbon." 
 
 "You have always been so generous — ^more 
 than generous. Your subscriptions, and — and 
 your proposals as regards myself, though I 
 couldn't accept them, were " 
 
 "Natural enough! You'll have to have the 
 lot one day — I've nobody else to leave it to, and 
 I'm not the man to marry again." He laughed. 
 "It'll be a funny position, eh — an East End cu- 
 rate blooming into a millionaire ? You're a queer 
 fish, Cuthbert! I don't say any more about your 
 not coming into the City — you weren't cut out 
 for it — but what do you want to starve in the 
 slums for? If the Church was the only thing to 
 suit you, you might as well have had a snug 
 berth in it." 
 
 "I thought — at least I hoped — " said Cuthbert 
 stiffly, "that I had made my principles clear to 
 you long ago. I have no desire for a 'snug 
 berth' ; I told you so when the Call came to me. 
 My object in taking Orders was never to attain 
 material comforts; if I had sought worldly ad- 
 vantages, I should have embraced a commercial
 
 THE FAVOURITE PLOT 261 
 
 career instead. I choose to labour among those 
 who need my poor help the most; and I choose 
 to be in truth their brother — not to hold myself 
 aloof from them, a preceptor in a pleasance." 
 
 "Oh, very proper, very high-minded," said the 
 financier hurriedly; "a reputation for conscien- 
 tiousness, of course, is a valuable asset. Have it 
 your own way, my lad. If I'm not to do any- 
 thing for you in my lifetime, we'll say no more 
 about it." 
 
 The curate flushed. 
 
 "As a matter of fact," he stammered, "my 
 reason for wishing to see you was to beg you to 
 do something for me. My principles are quite 
 unchanged ; I still mean to work among the poor, 
 I'm still resolved to abstain from living among 
 them luxuriously, but — well, circumstances have 
 arisen which — er — Perhaps I had better tell 
 you everything, as it happened." 
 
 "Best way," said Pybus, repressing a groan. 
 
 "I was rather seriously unwell some weeks 
 ago, and my Vicar induced me to take a brief 
 holiday. He is always most considerate." 
 
 "Any family at the vicarage?" 
 
 "Family? There are his three daughters." 
 
 "Ah," murmured the millionaire. "Yes, he 
 would consider you attentively. Go on.'* 
 
 "Some pleasant seaside place was desirable.
 
 ^62 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 and I went to Hastings. The Castle is most fas- 
 cinating." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Well, my lodgings were not cheerful, and the 
 weather was unpropitious, so altogether " 
 
 "You got the hump?" 
 
 "I was — er — rather — yes. One evening, as it 
 was too wet to take a walk, I attended a per- 
 formance of A Crown of Thorns. Of course, I 
 had heard about it — I knew .that it had been ap- 
 proved by organs of the Press that don't mention 
 such things as a rule — but I confess that it 
 amazed me. I found its religious teaching quite 
 as admirable as the historical instruction it af- 
 forded — the insight into the life of ancient Kome. 
 It was practically my first visit to a theatre, and 
 a most memorable experience. Perhaps you 
 know the play?" 
 
 "Girl holds up a cross in the limelight and the 
 lions are afraid to eat her?" 
 
 "No, sir, there are no lions. There are lions in 
 the pictorial advertisements of the play, but they 
 are not actually visible on the stage. It isn't too 
 much to say that I was 'overwhelmed.' I was 
 ashamed of the unreasoning prejudice I had al- 
 ways entertained against theatrical perform- 
 ances."
 
 THE FAVOURITE PLOT 263 
 
 "You haven't come to ask me to endow a the- 
 atre, I hope?" put in the milHonaire genially. 
 
 "Oh, indeed, not at all, sir — the idea had not 
 presented itself to me. Hear me out ! The part 
 of the heroine was taken by a lady who possessed 
 such spiritual fervour that, at first, I regretted 
 her choice of a career. How true it is that preju- 
 dice dies hard ! I grieved — it was narrow of me ! 
 — that she was not devotipg herself to the propa- 
 gation of faith among the heathen of our own 
 time, instead of to the mimic — er — I mean 
 that it seemed to me she was wasting her precious 
 gifts, that she ought to have been a missionary." 
 
 "I quite follow you," said Pybus drily. 
 
 "I did not recognize the truth at once ; but then 
 it came to me — I understood ! As I looked round 
 at the eyes wet with tears, I saw that the stage 
 may make, for good as powerfully as the pulpit ; 
 I saw that this beautiful girl, uttering the grace 
 that was in her to hundreds nightly — I don't 
 know if I mentioned that she has been favoured 
 with remarkable beauty — was stirring the minds 
 of mere pleasure-seekers to the contemplation of 
 higher things ; I saw that she was working in the 
 same Cause as myself." 
 
 "Great Scott, boy, you've fallen in love with 
 an actress!" exclaimed Pybus. "So that's it?" 
 
 "Later, I certainly learnt to love her," replied
 
 264 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 the curate with dignity, "though I don't perceive 
 by what process you have arrived at the fact. I 
 had the happiness to meet her the next afternoon 
 — in the waiting-room at a dentist's — and the 
 passing of a magazine led to conversation." 
 
 "Did you tell her that you thought she ought 
 to have been a missionary?" 
 
 "I believe I did say something of my earlier 
 regret ; and she agreed with me that she was do- 
 ing equally exalted work on the stage. Perhaps 
 my enlightemnent may be partly due to that con- 
 versation; her thoughts on the subject were very 
 beautiful. One answer that she made impressed 
 me deeply: 'Religion and Art,' she said, 'are in 
 reality the same thing.' . . . Without the context 
 it is not so forcible, but when she said it, it was a 
 perfect expression of what we meant, it was most 
 illuminative !" 
 
 "How much have you been muddling yourself 
 up with this girl?" asked the financier curtly. 
 
 "Sir?" 
 
 "I say, how far has it gone? What happened 
 after she illuminated the dentist's?" 
 
 "We met often after the dentist's — on the Pa- 
 rade. We used to listen to the town crier to- 
 gether; she found a town crier so quaint; any- 
 thing that savours of a bygone age appeals to 
 her strongly. Fortunately, too, the company
 
 THE FAVOURITE PLOT 265 
 
 was going to London — to various theatres in the 
 suburbs — so I was able to see her when I re- 
 turned; and — and she has consented to be my 
 wife." 
 
 "You told her you were my nephew, eh — ^my 
 heir?" 
 
 "I saw no reason for reticence. I trust you 
 have not formed a poor opinion of a lady whom 
 you have never seen?" 
 
 "Not at all; I should have a poor opinion of 
 her if she'd refused you under the circumstances. 
 But you're making yourself ridiculous. You've 
 lost your head over an actress; you've taken a 
 queer, clerical way about it, but you've lost your 
 head over an actress. It won't do, Cuthbert, the 
 thing's absurd." 
 
 Cuthbert had turned very pale. 
 
 "I'm sorry to find you so unjust," he groaned. 
 "I had hoped, in view of the many offers you 
 have so kind! 3^ made me, that you'd be willing to 
 — to further my happiness. Marriage upon my 
 stipend is impossible, as you know. I trusted to 
 your affection to — to — Why, you've pressed 
 me to take an allowance over and over again 1" 
 
 "Look here, boy," exclaimed Pybus, "I'm go- 
 ing to talk straight to you! You're the nearest 
 relative I've got, and though you were never the 
 sort I was keen on leaving a million to, I knew
 
 266 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 you'd waste it in a creditable and conscientious 
 kind of way. Also I'm only fifty, and I hoped 
 you'd have got more sense by the time I died. 
 But this alters matters. I shouldn't leave my 
 money to you if you made a ridiculous marriage, 
 and I don't part with a quid to help you to do it. 
 That's plain English. You can tell her what I've 
 said when you keep the appointment at the 
 stage-door to-night! She can marry you if she 
 likes, but she'll live in Plaistow on what you've 
 got now — there'll be nothing from me." 
 
 "And you," observed Cuthbert bitterly, "are 
 called 'a man of the world'! Why, sir, you are 
 displaying all the narrowness of the least sophis- 
 ticated. She is an actress — and so to wed her 
 must be misfortune! She is an actress " 
 
 "And you're a fool," said Pybus. "But I 
 don't want to quarrel with you — I've been there 
 myself — thirty years ago — we've all been there 
 some time. You go to a theatre, you see a pretty 
 woman, and you think you're in love. You're a 
 curate, so your symptoms are a bit complicated, 
 but the complaint's very usual, Cuthbert, believe 
 me — it won't be fatal." 
 
 "Will you allow me to introduce her to you?" 
 pleaded Cuthbert. "Will you give me a chance 
 to overcome your prejudices?" 
 
 "No, I won't; I haven't any prejudices. I
 
 THE FAVOURITE PLOT 267 
 
 daresay the girl's right enough — for the right 
 man; but she's a long way from right for you. 
 You don't really suppose she can care about you. 
 You're a good lad, but the last fellow in the 
 world to please an actress. If you hadn't told 
 her you were my nephew, she'd have laughed in 
 your face when you proposed to her." 
 
 "I am prepared," said the curate resignedly, 
 "to suffer humiliation if need be." 
 
 "Oh, well, I don't want to hurt your feelings. 
 But — er — well, she would! I know what act- 
 resses are like." 
 
 "But you don't know her. If you would talk 
 to her once, she would convert you; you would 
 own you were wrong. My life's happiness is at 
 stake. Before you decide, let me bring her to 
 see you. Surely it is no more than fair?" 
 
 Pybus picked up the evening papers. "It's no 
 good going on with it; that's all I've got to say." 
 
 He opened the Pall Mall. 
 
 "Good-night, sir," quavered the curate, ex- 
 tending a hopeless hand. 
 
 "Good-night, boy," said the financier cordially. 
 "Whenever you want anything in reason let me 
 know." 
 
 Cuthbert took a bus to Victoria, and arrived 
 at the Shakespeare, Clapham, in ample time. It 
 was still embarrassing to him to loiter at a stage-
 
 268 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 door; but a man is justified in meeting his fiancee 
 anywhere. He endeavoured to assert this by his 
 bearing when loafers stared at him. Nobody was 
 ever quite so high-nanded as Cuthbert tried to 
 look when he waited at stage-doors. 
 
 "My own, I have failed," he told her, as they 
 walked to Clapham Junction. 
 
 The hand on his arm trembled. "What did he 
 say?" 
 
 "He was obdurate; he refused point blank. 
 Why should I pain you by repeating the insults 
 I had to bear?" 
 
 "Just because I am an actress!" exclaimed the 
 girl pathetically. "Oh, what we have to put up 
 with, we artists; how uncharitable they are to 
 us! . . . Then it's all over between you and I?" 
 
 He winced. But tears were swimming in her 
 lovely eyes ; it would have been heartless to men- 
 tion grammar. 
 
 "I cannot lose you," he cried, "I cannot! We 
 might — no, it's out of the question. What's to 
 be done? Angela, I almost lose faith!" 
 
 "Hush," she murmured, looking upward; "it 
 may be all for the best, dear — it must be — though 
 it is hard for us to understand it. . . . Do you 
 think he would relent when we were married?" 
 
 "I fear not — he would never know you. If 
 he'd let me take you to him, we should succeed.
 
 THE FAVOURITE PLOT 269 
 
 I'm sure — your intelligence and beauty would 
 win him over, though he wouldn't appreciate your 
 soul; but he declined to see you." 
 
 "It's a pity I can't be introduced to him as 
 somebody else — go there as a hospital nurse or 
 something. Then when I'd got round him, and 
 he was very grateful to me, I could say, 'my name 
 is Angela Noble — I love your nephew!' " 
 
 "It is a sweet idea. But his health is robust, 
 and, besides, he goes abroad very soon." 
 
 "That's what I shall have to do," she said 
 moodily. 
 
 "You?" 
 
 "If we don't marry, I must take the engage- 
 ment for New York; you know I have the offer 
 open — I shall have to go." 
 
 "New York?" cried Cuthbert. "I hoped you 
 had dismissed the notion." He was meditative. 
 "Angela, I have a daring thought! I will not 
 fail." 
 
 Pybus was considerably surprised a day or two 
 later at receiving a pleasant letter from the young 
 man wishing him an agreeable voyage and in- 
 quiring by what boat he was to cross; he was 
 considerably irritated at receiving a second letter 
 reminding him of his permission to ask reasonable 
 favours. A lady of the curate's acquaintance 
 was "departing for America, unprotected, by
 
 270 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 that very vessel." An act of courtesy that Mr. 
 Pybus would kindly show to the friendless lady, 
 his affectionate nex^hew would much appreciate. 
 It was added tactfully that, her means preclud- 
 ing speculation, no fear need be entertained of 
 her angling for tips. 
 
 Pybus swore, and dictated a gracious note. 
 
 And the boat sailed. 
 
 Miss Noble unpacked her cabin trunk with the 
 painful consciousness that steamers travelled fast. 
 When she had made the chance remark that in- 
 spired her lover, she had been thinking vaguely 
 of a sick-room and plenty of time for womanly 
 gentleness to be admired. "Between Acts II. 
 and III. a month elapses." An Atlantic racer 
 was alarmingly different. 
 
 And the uncle was more discouraging still. 
 Every uncle that she had ever known refusing 
 his consent had a white moustache and side 
 whiskers, and was slightly bowed with age and 
 cynicism. Here was a hale and hearty uncle, 
 carelessly good-humoured. Such a person 
 seemed less likely to break up into slushy senti- 
 ment than the iciest cynic that ever sneered. The 
 report that reached Plaistow from Queenstown 
 was not a sanguine one. "There's just this in 
 our favour," she had scribbled: "he has no sus- 
 picion who I am, and he can't escape me without
 
 THE FAVOURITE PLOT 271 
 
 jumping overboard. You may bet" — "bet" had 
 been imperfectly erased — "feel sure I shall do as 
 
 much in the time as I can. Dear one " Cuth- 
 
 bert kissed the ship's stationery with enthusiasm. 
 
 She was a bright girl — she hasn't been seen to 
 advantage with the curate — and she was working 
 for by far the most profitable engagement of her 
 career ; before the first sweepstake on the run she 
 began to play her part in quite another manner 
 than the one she had mentally rehearsed. The 
 spiritual note that Cuthbert had expected of her 
 — to go on being the heroine of A Crown of 
 Thorns after the curtain was down — wouldn't 
 catch on here at all, she decided ; there was no hit 
 to be made on those lines. Admiration, a wide- 
 eyed homage of the financier's cleverness ? Prob- 
 ably all the women he met looked at him like 
 that — it had been played out long ago. The 
 smartest thing would be to treat the middle-aged 
 magnate as if he were an amusing young man! 
 
 She did it. It was much easier than being 
 soulful, much less fatiguing. She laughed, she 
 chaffed, she even flirted with him a little. Pybus, 
 who had been prepared to find her a consummate 
 nuisance, hadn't been on such good terms with 
 himself for years. 
 
 The day before they sighted Sandy Hook he 
 said, "I hope I shall see something of you after
 
 272 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 we land? Are you staying in New York long?" 
 
 "I — I hardly know," she answered. "It de- 
 pends." It depended on the way he took it when 
 she sprung the truth on him directly ; she felt less 
 self-possessed than usual. 
 
 "Anyhow, there's my address. If there's any- 
 thing I can do I shall be glad." 
 
 "That's very kind of you. I wonder how much 
 you mean it?" She flashed a glance. "I might 
 ask for something big." 
 
 "Ah, I didn't pledge myself to do anything 
 you asked; I said I'd be glad to do anything I 
 could." 
 
 "Cautious person!" They were pacing the 
 deck, and they walked in silence for a minute. 
 She was wondering if it would be discreet to de- 
 lay her confession till they had arrived. 
 
 "You're nervy to-day," said Pybus. "You 
 look as if you were going to say you had a head- 
 ache. It's just the moment for a glass of cham- 
 pagne and a cracker. Let's go below and get 
 them." 
 
 "I don't think I care about it, thanks; but 
 you're quite right — I'm nervy. I want to tell 
 you something. ShaU we sit down?" 
 
 They sat down, and again there was silence. 
 
 "Well?" he questioned. 
 
 "I don't know how to begin."
 
 THE FAVOURITE PLOT 27^ 
 
 "Let me help you," suggested Pybus. "Pull 
 me up if I'm wrong. You are an actress; my 
 nephew Cuthbert thinks he is in love with you; 
 and you came aboard in the hope of persuading 
 me to agree to your marriage. Whether you 
 were going to New York, anyhow, I don't know; 
 I trust you w^ere, for I should be sorry to have 
 put you to so much inconvenience. Now the be- 
 ginning is over — proceed!" 
 
 Miss Noble had uttered a faint exclamation of 
 astonishment ; she stared blankly at the sea. 
 
 "You seem surprised," he said. "That isn't 
 flattering to my intelligence. Cuthbert's circle of 
 pretty w^omen is strictly limited, I take it — any 
 doubt that I had of your identity when I got his 
 letter was removed the moment I saw you." 
 
 "Oh, then you do think I'm pretty?" faltered 
 Miss Noble. 
 
 "You are not a beauty, but your face is pleas- 
 ing. I say you threw yourself in my way with 
 the intention of convincing me that you were a 
 much nicer girl than I supposed you to be. Am 
 I correct?" 
 
 "Quite correct," said Miss Noble in a low voice. 
 "It was an innocent plot." 
 
 "It is the favourite one — it has been in the 
 English magazines every month since I was a 
 child. Well, I am convinced. Don't misunder-
 
 274j the man who understood WOMEN 
 
 stand me. I find you brainier, wittier, and nicer 
 in every respect; in fact, you are even more cal- 
 culated than I assumed to spoil his life." 
 
 "Mr. Pybus!" 
 
 "Keep your temper — it's a reflection on him, 
 not on you. I'll explain. Cuthbert is my heir 
 faute de mieux — which may be translated as 
 'Because I haven't a son, much as I should like 
 one' — and though I've never pretended he was 
 the apple of my eye, I should regret to see him 
 come to grief. If you were the flabby, phono- 
 graphic sort of young woman to echo his senti- 
 ments and make him happy, I'd say, 'Take him 
 with my sympathy — he's yours !' You're a hun- 
 dred per cent, too charming for the marriage to 
 be a success. You have come down to his stand- 
 ard very effectually so far, I admit — it must have 
 given you a lot of trouble — but you couldn't hope 
 to impose on him always; before he had discov- 
 ered half your attractions they'd break his heart." 
 
 "I — I don't know what to say to you. Then 
 — then you refuse?" 
 
 "It's a novelty to see you at a loss. Yes, I 
 refuse unhesitatingly. Among the few certain- 
 ties of life we may count the fact that you'll 
 never marry Cuthbert with any help from me." 
 
 "For the reason that you've given me?" 
 
 "Among others. If I may say so, for the fur-
 
 THE FAVOURITE PLOT 275 
 
 ther reason that I don't wish you to be unhappy, 
 either. You find him a pill, naturally, and you'd 
 have been bored to death." 
 
 "You are despising me," she exclaimed; "you 
 think I'm a mercenary creature without a heart, 
 who " 
 
 "Don't talk to me as if I were Cuthbert. I 
 don't despise you in the least. You are in a very 
 precarious and overcrowded calling, and you'd 
 have married him for position — as hundreds and 
 thousands of fashionable and wealthy girls would 
 be wilhng to marry him, if I smiled approval — 
 but I know you'd have found him dear at the 
 price. And I have a third reason, though I can 
 assert quite truthfully that the first alone would 
 prevent my consenting. I'd like to marry you 
 myself." 
 
 "You?" she gasped. 
 
 "Why not? Of course you're not in love with 
 me, but you like me much better than you like 
 him, you can't dispute it. Professionally you are 
 nineteen, I suppose ; that's to say you are really 
 about twenty-eight; so I'm two-and-twenty years 
 older than you are. It's a lump, but I'm lively 
 for my age and if you go on flirting with me 
 you'll make me feel considerably younger. It'll 
 be rough on Cuthbert I own — my marrying you 
 will cost him about a million. Still, he won't have
 
 276 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 you in any case; and a hundred and fifty a year 
 would be a great deal more appropriate. Be- 
 sides, it's entirely his own fault; he should have 
 taken 'no' for an answer when he came to see me, 
 and then I should never have met you. Think it 
 over. If you regard me as a fairly young man, 
 you needn't hesitate ; and if you don't, remember 
 that there's no fool like an old one — that you'll 
 have a very good time." 
 
 "You couldn't respect me?" murmured Miss 
 Noble. "You'd feel that I was only marrying 
 the money — that the man didn't matter?" 
 
 "I am not without some natural vanity, I as- 
 sure you. Come, which do you feel more at home 
 with, him or me?" 
 
 "You," admitted Miss Noble softly. 
 
 "That settles it!" said Pybus. "We'll get Tif- 
 fany's to send round some engagement rings in 
 the morning."
 
 TIME, THE HUINIORIST 
 
 Herbert Harding was one of the most dis- 
 tinguished dramatic critics in London, one of the 
 most scholarly and acute. Yet no man is a 
 prophet to his family, and at home "H.H." was 
 considered to be "wasting his life at the game." 
 
 Of course, the old people took the paper in 
 which his first-night notices appeared, and they 
 wrestled with his essays in volume form — essays, 
 by the way, which will always be ranked among 
 the most valuable contributions to the j)sychol- 
 ogy of the theatre; but the references to Diderot, 
 and Stendhal, and other persons of whom they 
 had never heard before baffled them mightily, 
 and if the book had been written by anybody 
 but Herbert, they would never have read a dozen 
 pages of it. As Harding senior, a sensible and 
 hearty Englishman, used to say to his wife, 
 "Thank God, he wasn't literary himself, and to 
 discuss whether the heroine of a play would have 
 behaved like this, or have behaved like that, when 
 one knew that she wasn't a real woman at all, 
 seemed to him the sort of tomfoolishness for 
 young girls in a drawing-room, and not the kind 
 
 277
 
 278 THE ]\IAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 of thing he would have expected a son of his to 
 do for a living, damn it!" 
 
 There were persons who professed to see in the 
 fact that Harding had always been unappre- 
 ciated by his relatives, the explanation of his mar- 
 riage. But there were many cultured women 
 who admired him ; Gertrude Millington's homage 
 was not singular. She was, certainly, amiable, 
 and she "wrote"; yet when one remembers the 
 triviahty of her stories, one would have supposed 
 her authorship would deter, rather than attract, 
 a man like Harding. Besides, he had privately 
 resented the necessity for making her acquaint- 
 ance. 
 
 She was a friend of one of his sisters — ^he had 
 met her when he went down to his people for a 
 fortnight in the autumn; and his mother had 
 said: 
 
 "Oh, my son Herbert — ISIiss Millington. You 
 have often heard us talk of Miss Millington, 
 Herbert? You two should find lots to say to 
 each other, both being writers." 
 
 Harding, who had never heard Miss Milling- 
 ton's name till then, there or anywhere else, 
 thought that his mother ought to have known 
 better. 
 
 Perhaps the girl thought so, too, for her smile 
 was embarrassed.
 
 TIME, THE HUMORIST 279 
 
 "I never expected to get the chance to meet 
 Mr. Harding," she said reverentially. 
 
 Harding thawed. Since she recognised him as 
 a master, he was prepared to tolerate her. In 
 five minutes he had gathered that to be talking 
 to him was one of the events of her life. 
 
 Naturally they talked of the theatre, and 
 though her attitude towards the drama was un- 
 trained, Harding perceived an eagerness to be 
 enhghtened, a quickness of intelligence that 
 saved him from being bored. That, at any rate, 
 was how he put it to himself, though whether her 
 eagerness and intelhgence would have interested 
 him if she had not been passably good-looking 
 is a doubtful point. 
 
 The fortnight proved uncommonly pleasant to 
 him, and as he did not have an opportunity for 
 looking at any of her work until they were back 
 in town and he was well in love with her, the 
 crudity of her fiction did not infuriate him so 
 violently as it would have done otherwise. On 
 the contrary, he persuaded himself that, under- 
 lying the immaturities of style and characterisa- 
 tion, there was the glint of genuine talent. 
 
 His income, derived solely from his pen, was 
 slender; but everything is relative, and Miss 
 Millington lived in a boarding-house at West 
 Kensington. Compared with her own, his means
 
 280 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 were substantial. To cut the courtship short, he 
 married her. Miss Milhngton, the unknown, be- 
 came the wife of Harding, the august. Women 
 who had made a reputation called on them, and 
 * 'wondered what he could have seen in her, they 
 were sure!" His best friends confessed them- 
 selves "a bit surprised at his choice"; and Hard- 
 ing, with all the ardour of his intellect and his 
 affection, proceeded to cultivate his wife's mind. 
 
 Never was a disciple more devoted. She put 
 her story-writing aside — he had advised her to do 
 that until she was more widely read — and plodded 
 conscientiously through the list of classics that 
 he drew up for her improvement. As often as he 
 obtained two seats, she went to the theatre with 
 him, and listened absorbed to his catalogue of the 
 play's defects. Because she loved him dearly and 
 panted to please, she never failed to assure him 
 that she understood, and thoroughly agreed with 
 everything he said — though this was a flagrant 
 lie — and Harding promoted her to Ibsen, and ex- 
 pounded his qualities to her for hours on end. 
 
 She grew to miss her scribbling by degrees. 
 By degrees she grew to sicken at the intellectual 
 stuffing. Before long, her delight at going to a 
 theatre was marred by her dread of the critic's 
 edifying monologue when they returned. But she 
 never yawned, she never faltered — she endured
 
 TIME, THE HUMORIST 281 
 
 the deadly dulness of her education without a 
 murmur. 
 
 Her confinement was a hoHday. Harding, 
 however, was far too fond of his wife to neglect 
 her because he had a son, and after she was up 
 again, he devoted as much earnest attention to 
 her as before. By this time she could give forth 
 dozens of his opinions with all the fidelity of a 
 phonograph, and he contemplated her progress 
 with the tenderest pride. 
 
 The baby, and a nurse, and the necessary 
 change in the domestic arrangements meant 
 increased expenses, and now she sometimes re- 
 flected that the modest cheques obtainable by her 
 pen would be an aid. 
 
 Once she said to him: 
 
 "Herbert, when do you think I might go back 
 to my work? Don't you think I might write 
 something again now?" 
 
 "What do you want to write?" he asked, with 
 an indulgent smile. 
 
 "I suppose what I ought to do is another book; 
 I should like to write a play, though." 
 
 "A play?" He stared. "My child, you aren't 
 a dramatist." 
 
 "Well, I never shall be one if I don't make a 
 beginning. I should think I ought to be able to 
 manage a piece, after all I've read."
 
 282 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 Harding smiled again, wryly. The temerity 
 of the novice was a wonderful thing. 
 
 "You know more than you did, but dramatic 
 construction isn't to be mastered in a year and a 
 half, goose, even by the born playwright." 
 
 "It's never to be mastered at all without trying, 
 is it?" 
 
 There was a touch of obstinacy in her tone, 
 and he was greatly disappointed. Since she 
 could speak in so light a fashion of accomplishing 
 a play, it seemed that she had learnt nothing after 
 all. The magnitude of the undertaking did not 
 impress her in the least — she talked like the 
 proverbial amateur. 
 
 "Doesn't it occur to you," he said patiently, 
 "that, although I know considerably more about 
 it than you do, I don't write plays? I recognise 
 what I lack. And I recognise what i/ou lack. 
 I'm not trying to make a dramatist of you, my 
 child — I simply want you to have an acquaint- 
 ance with what is best in dramatic literature; I 
 want you to be able to discriminate. As to your 
 writing again, perhaps you will. But not yet. 
 Not yet, by any means! And when you do, of 
 course it should be a story. Really whether you 
 wi'ite, or whether you don't, is of no importance 
 — why aspire to authorship?" 
 
 Before they married she had counted herself
 
 TIME, THE HUMORIST 283 
 
 an author already. She winced. But his remon- 
 strance, affectionate as it was, took the pluck out 
 of her. She let the subject down, and put her 
 aspirations on the shelf. She divided her time 
 between the baby and the books henceforth, 
 though the baby came gradually to receive the 
 larger share. 
 
 They had three children, and an odious little 
 house in Balham when she did pencil "Act I. — A 
 Drawing-Room" at last. She did not mean to 
 let Harding guess her project till the comedy was 
 finished; she knew that he would have discour- 
 aged her, that he would have repeated that she 
 had no quahfications for dramatic work, or, at 
 best, that it was years too soon for her to attempt 
 it. But she told herself that when the piece was 
 done, when she read it to him, and saw his pleas- 
 ure, that would make amends for everything. 
 She pictured his surprise as she said carelessly, 
 "Oh, by the way, if you can spare an hour this 
 evening, there's something I want you to hear!" 
 The anxiety of his gaze as she produced the man- 
 uscript and announced "A Comedy in Tliree 
 Acts," she could imagine that too ! He would sit 
 down nervously, twisting his moustache, and, of 
 course, her voice would wobble frightfully. Then 
 presently his face would change — she foresaw his 
 smile, the sudden Hft of his head at a good line,
 
 284s THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 the growing wonder of his expression. In her 
 hopes she heard him exclaim that her work had 
 wit, brilhance, and, above all, reality — that she 
 had amazed and made him proud of her. It was 
 a young and rather foolish woman's dream, but 
 it sprang from her love for him quite as much as 
 from her personal ambitions. 
 
 And she wrote. She drove her pen in secret 
 for months ; she was not a slow writer — far from 
 it — but there were few occasions on which she 
 could feel confident of being undisturbed. Her 
 best hours were when there was a "first night" 
 somewhere, for then there was no danger of 
 Harding popping into the room before she could 
 thrust the manuscript out of sight. While the 
 critic sat in judgment at the theatre, his wife sat 
 in Balham scribbling dialogue with a rapidity 
 that would have horrified him. Indeed, it made 
 her distrust herself in moments; she questioned 
 if it was possible for first-rate work to be pro- 
 duced so quickly. Yet when she read the scene, 
 it sounded capital. She came to the conclusion 
 that her swiftness proved her to be even more ac- 
 complished as a dramatist than she had supposed. 
 Harding generally found her in high good-hu- 
 mour when he returned. And though it was 
 very late, for now his notices had to be delivered 
 before he went home, he used to tell her the plot
 
 TIME, THE HUMORIST 285 
 
 of the play that he had been to see, and she would 
 agree sapiently with all his observations. 
 
 The disciple had, in fact, become a companion 
 by now, and, despite the state of the exchequer, 
 Harding knew no regret for having married her. 
 When he recalled the uncultured girl of the 
 honejTnoon, and constrasted her with the woman 
 who understood most of his English references 
 and quotations, he was dehghted with the success 
 he had effected. It was with a shock, a shudder, 
 one day, that he picked off the mantelpiece a bill 
 for typewriting "'The Audacity of Dinah, in three 
 acts." Forebodings hinted that his success wasn't 
 quite so triumphant as he had thought. 
 
 "What's this?" 
 
 "Oh!" How stupid she had been to leave it 
 there! Now she had to tell him the great news 
 differently from the way she had planned. "It's 
 mine." 
 
 "I see it is," said Harding. " 'The Audacity 
 of Dinah'?" 
 
 Her nod was embarrassed. "Yes." 
 "I didn't know you were writing." 
 "No, I didn't want you to know till I could 
 read it to you ; I meant to tell you after dinner. 
 I — I'm very anxious to hear if you think it will 
 do." She flushed, and smiled shyly. "I'm rather 
 pleased with it; I've been at it a long time; I
 
 286 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 think— I think I've done something you'll find a 
 good word for." 
 
 "Baby!" said Harding, pinching her cheek; 
 "I've no doubt I shall find a good word for it, 
 but I'm afraid I shall have to say things you 
 won't like, too. I shall be quite candid with you, 
 I warn you." 
 
 "Oh, that's just what I want," she declared, 
 laughing happily; "I want you to forget who I 
 am altogether — you must be just Herbert Hard- 
 ing listening to a new author. No compliments, 
 no — what's the word? — euphemisms. It's to be 
 real criticism, please." 
 
 "All right," he said. "Well, when am I to hear 
 it — at once?" 
 
 "I think after dinner will be best — I've always 
 pictured you listening to it after dinner. And 
 there'll be nothing to interrupt us when the last 
 post has been. Mind, I shall be awfully fright- 
 ened; you must make allowances for that." 
 
 Something in her hearing, in her voice — more 
 still, perhaps, something in the fact that she was 
 dear to him — raised his hopes. His suspense 
 was nearly as keen as her own while they dined. 
 And when the servant had shut the door, and 
 Gertrude commanded him to "sit down in that 
 chair," and to refrain from looking at her for the
 
 TIME, THE HUMORIST 287 
 
 first few minutes, his hands were not quite steady 
 as he filled his pipe. 
 
 She drew her own chair to the table, and after 
 an instant's hesitation, began to read. 
 
 Harding listened intently, his gaze fixed on the 
 fire. And before she had read for half an hour 
 astonishmeirt laid hold of him. Awhile ago, 
 catching something of her excitement, he had 
 fancied that the play might reveal a talent that 
 he had underrated, a promise of good things to 
 come; originally, he had fancied that it would 
 repel him ; but at no time had he fancied that it 
 would be quite so dejecting as it was. He was 
 astounded that any woman who had studied so 
 much good work could be capable of writing so 
 badly. The man suffered — silently and acutely 
 suffered — as, gaining courage, she declaimed her 
 travesty of human nature with gusto. He pitied 
 her, he could have wept for her, he would rather 
 have been compelled to sit out a pantomime every 
 night for a year than to tell her the truth. 
 
 But she closed the covers of Act I., and said, 
 with her soul in her eves, "Well?" 
 
 He shifted the pipe between his teeth, and 
 stifled a groan. "Let me hear it right through," 
 he answered, postponing the evil moment. 
 
 "Act II.," she continued in a clear voice. 
 
 It was eleven o'clock when the ordeal ended.
 
 288 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 His wife leant back in her seat, her hands clasped 
 in her lap, and waited. 
 
 Despairingly he sought for some particle of 
 honest praise. 
 
 "The theme isn't bad," he said. 
 
 "All !" 
 
 "But it isn't worked out properly." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 He hastened to add, "There are lots of very 
 pretty lines." 
 
 "That's nice!" She beamed. 
 
 "You put them in the wrong people's mouths, 
 though. In the last act, you make your misan- 
 thrope talk like the Cheeryble Brothers." 
 
 "Kindness has changed his nature then. Don't 
 you like the girl?" 
 
 "She's not consistent," he complained; "she's 
 seventeen one minute, and thirty-five the next. 
 She has had 'no social experience,' yet she scores 
 off the woman of the world in every answer. 
 That's the fault all through — if you see a chance 
 for something smart, you can't resist it, whether 
 it's appropriate to the character or not. The 
 mother makes an epigram in the situation where 
 she thinks her son has been killed — she'd be in- 
 articulate, she wouldn't fire off epigrams." 
 
 There was a long pause. At last she said, 
 stonily :
 
 TIME, THE HUMORIST 289 
 
 "In other words, you don't think anything 
 of it?" 
 
 He shifted the pipe again. *'WelI " 
 
 *'Oh, be frank, Herbert!" she cried. She was 
 very white. "There musn't be any humbug be- 
 tween you and me!" 
 
 "It's no good, Gertie," he confessed wretch- 
 edly. 
 
 She gathered it up, and put it in a drawer, 
 and shut the drawer very quietly. Her mouth 
 had hardened. He was a distinguished critic, and 
 her husband; but she was an author, and her 
 pride was in arms. For the first time she doubted 
 his wisdom. For the first time she opposed her 
 will to his. It was "no good," he had said — she 
 could not accept the pronouncement, she would 
 prove to him that he was wrong! 
 
 "We won't talk any more about it," she said 
 presently, when he offered some feeble comfort. 
 "I've made a mistake, that's all." But she meant 
 that her mistake was having invited his opinion, 
 not having written the comedy. 
 
 She determined to submit it to the Piccadilly 
 Theatre without delay. Of course, she would not 
 put her own name to it now — as he thought it so 
 worthless he would probably object to its being 
 known as his wife's even if it were produced. 
 She would choose a pseudonym. And if her work
 
 S90 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 were taken, if it made a success, she would men- 
 tion to him, very gently, but firmly, that he was 
 too ready to find fault, that his prejudices warped 
 his judgment — in fact, that he wasn't quite so 
 excellent a critic as he believed himself to be. 
 
 At this point it may be stated that his criticism 
 of The Audacity of Dinah was absolutely sound. 
 The piece was every bit as bad as he thought it. 
 
 She posted the manuscript the following after- 
 noon, and many weeks later it was returned to 
 her with "regret." The Piccadilly, she said dog- 
 gedly, was not the only theatre in London — she 
 made up the parcel once more and sent it to the 
 Diadem. The Diadem also "regretted," and took 
 longer to communicate the fact. To several West 
 End theatres the comedy was offered unavail- 
 ingly; and then — she re-read the brief note with 
 rapture several times — a manager wrote asking 
 her to call. 
 
 INTot before the contract was signed and 
 stamped did she announce her news to Harding. 
 It was a great moment for her. Nearly eighteen 
 months had passed since the day of the reading, 
 but she had not forgotten the humiliation that he 
 had inflicted. He realised that suddenly, discom- 
 fitingly, by the inflexions of her voice, by the look 
 in her eyes, by her new air of self-esteem. 
 
 "I'm very glad for you," he faltered. And she
 
 TIME, THE HUMORIST 291 
 
 replied, "I'm sure you are, dear," with a touch 
 of patronage. 
 
 He did not attend the production himself; as 
 he explained to her, he would have been bound 
 to express his convictions sincerely. The Editor 
 put on another man to "do" The Audacity of 
 Dinah, and, on the whole, the other man's notice 
 was favourable. With a few exceptions, all the 
 Press was tolerant. Better still, the piece cap- 
 tured the Public. The booking next day was 
 brisk, and increased steadily through the week. 
 On the second Saturday night they played to 
 "the capacity of the house." The comedy came 
 to be known as one of the few genuine successes 
 of the year, and of course it had leaked out that 
 the author was Mrs. Herbert Harding. The il- 
 lustrated journals devoted a page to her photo- 
 graph, favouring their readers with details of her 
 "literary methods," and with her views on the 
 world in general. A manufacturer's advertise- 
 ments informed the kingdom that The Audacity 
 of Dinah had been written with a "Dashaway 
 Fountain Pen (price 10s. 6d., of all stationers)." 
 She lectured to the Front Row Club on "How to 
 ;Write a Play." Posters proclaimed the "300th 
 Performance." And various theatrical managers 
 expressed a deferential hope that they, too, might
 
 293 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 be privileged to produce some of her brilliant 
 work. 
 
 They were. She has never written anything 
 so popular since, but she has reeled out several 
 successful plays, of similar quality. The Hard- 
 ings have removed from Balham, and live in a 
 high-sounding Terrace at a fashionable Gate, and 
 the children often caution Herbert "not to make 
 a noise on the stairs, because mamma is busy.'* 
 Gertrude is a personage who speaks with quiet 
 authority in the home to-day, and drives to re- 
 hearsal in a thousand-guinea motor-car. When 
 he goes alone, the critic takes an omnibus, and 
 feels more cheerful. In spite of the luxurious 
 menage that she provides, he wishes frequently 
 that he were alone for good.
 
 THE BACK OF BOHEMIA 
 
 I 
 
 As two ladies came out of the florist's in the rue 
 Royale and moved towards their carriage, the 
 younger of the pair gave a start of surprise, and 
 exclaimed, "Ernest!" 
 
 "Who?" said Lady Liddington, vaguely. 
 
 Her niece was already shaking hands with him 
 — a young man with a voluminous necktie and a 
 soft felt hat, who looked poor and clever and bo- 
 hemian. 
 
 "Ernest," she cried, "how glad I am to see 
 
 I" 
 you! 
 
 "Kate ! Who'd have thought of meeting you 
 here!" He gazed at her with astonishment and 
 admiration. "I should hardly have recognised 
 you." 
 
 "I've grown up. Let me . . . my aunt, Lady 
 Liddington. You've often heard of Ernest, 
 Aunt Madge. I was his first critic. And your 
 mother and father?" 
 
 "Quite well, thanks." 
 
 "They're with you?" 
 
 293
 
 294 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 *'No, oh, no! they're still in Coblenz. The 
 governor grumbles to me regularly once a month ; 
 the mater bears it better. Poor old governor ! he 
 was meant to lounge through life with a rose-bud 
 in his buttonhole, wasn't he? I've been hving in 
 Paris nearly five years now." 
 
 "And working?" 
 
 "And working. I'm a painter, of sorts, at last." 
 
 "I can see you're a painter," laughed the girl. 
 "Why 'of sorts' ?" 
 
 "Art is a very arduous profession, I believe?" 
 murmured Lady Liddington, politely. Mentally 
 she was praying that no one who knew her would 
 happen to pass. Really the young man was a 
 "sight"! "Do you exhibit?" 
 
 "Not yet. I only sell." 
 
 "Oh? I always understood " 
 
 "I'm at the lowest of the practical stages. Lady 
 Liddington. At present I sell — somehow ! Later 
 on I shall manage to exhibit, and be unable to 
 sell. Finally I hope to exhibit and sell, too. But 
 the way is long." 
 
 "I see," she replied, profoundly uninterested. 
 
 "A real live artist!" said INIiss Ormerod, gaily. 
 "How proud you must be! It seems only the 
 other day that you were a boy at home, dream- 
 ing dreams."
 
 THE BACK OF BOHEMIA 295 
 
 "Yes, I was good at dreams ; dreams don't need 
 anatomy. How well I remember it all!" 
 
 "You must come and see us," she said, "and 
 soon ! I've a hundred questions to ask you. What 
 are we doing to-morrow. Aunt Madge?" 
 
 "Er — to-morrow? There's the Elysee in the 
 evening, you know; and the next night, I'm 
 afraid — But if to-morrow afternoon " 
 
 "I shall be delighted," he said. 
 
 The victoria drove away; and the two occu- 
 pants mused for a moment. 
 
 The elder was the first to speak. 
 
 "Your introduction was delicious. Who is the 
 gentleman?" 
 
 "You don't mean to say you don't know him? 
 —Ernest!" 
 
 "Yes, I heard you call him 'Ernest.' I 
 shouldn't do it again if I were you. Hasn't he a 
 surname by any chance?" 
 
 "Not call him—? Oh, how absurd! He's 
 Ernest Mallock. Why, we were almost like 
 brother and sister till his people had to leave 
 JNIoyamehane and go abroad. My mother must 
 have spoken of them to you a thousand times." 
 
 "Oh," said Lady Liddington, "he's Cyril Mal- 
 lock, is he? But you're not in the wilds of County 
 Roscommon now, remember ! You've grown up, 
 and "
 
 296 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 "And the Mallocks have lost all their money!" 
 concluded Miss Ormerod, with warmth. "Don't 
 leave that out, because it's really what you want 
 to say. Yes, they're ruined — and what of it? If 
 you think it's any reason why I should cut a boy 
 in the streets who " 
 
 "My dear," said the other, plaintively, "I did 
 not suggest that you should cut anybody in the 
 streets. I only hinted — It's very unkind of 
 you to talk like that." 
 
 The girl turned apologetically. 
 
 "Poor Aunt Madge! Yes, I was bolting, 
 wasn't I? I'm sorry. But if you knew how 
 happy it made me to see him — it was like a bit of 
 my childhood crossing the road. It was Ernest 
 who taught me to sit a horse, and how to throw a 
 fly. It was Ernest who taught me not to paint. 
 He used to kiss me up to the time I was fifteen." 
 
 "My dear!" She looked apprehensively at the 
 coachman's back. "Don't! . . . So he is Lord 
 Fernahoe's nephew, that young man in the dis- 
 tressing costume? Of course he has no chance of 
 the succession, not the slightest. Fernahoe has a 
 son, and I've met him. He's twenty years of age 
 and quite offensively robust. Wins cups and 
 things, and takes absurd dumb-bells in his port- 
 manteau when he stays anywhere. Your friend 
 can go on dressing like a disreputable glazier
 
 THE BACK OF BOHEMIA 297 
 
 for ever, if that's the only prospect he can boast." 
 
 "I don't suppose he even thinks of it. His 
 clothes seem to j ar you like an Anarchist banner. 
 He used to be rather a dandy, I can tell you, till 
 the crash came. And Lord Fernahoe might have 
 paid off the mortgage without feeling it — hateful 
 man ! But he quarrelled with the JMallocks years 
 ago." 
 
 "Very strange, isn't it? Perhaps his brother 
 did something disgraceful." 
 
 "Why on earth should it be Mr. JMallock's 
 fault?" 
 
 "Well, I'm sure I don't know, my dear. Only 
 one of them must have been to blame, it's very 
 certain; and it's always pleasanter to blame the 
 people you don't meet ; don't you think so ? How 
 sweet those roses smell, but what a price! I'm 
 sorry we bought them." 
 
 Men said of Madge Liddington that she was "a 
 good sort." Her worldliness was not disagree- 
 able, not too real. She herself said that she knew 
 what she ought to do, but somehow never did it. 
 Her theories were more cynical than her heart. 
 And on the morrow, when ISIallock came, she was 
 gracious, and even cordial. 
 
 He had made some concessions to the fashion- 
 able address. His clothes, if shabby, were less 
 unconventional to-day; and obviously he had no
 
 298 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 idea of falling in love with Kate. There was too 
 little formality between them for a chaperon to be 
 wholly pleased, but, at the same time, there was 
 nothing on either side to suggest the existence 
 of sentiment. 
 
 "Tell me all," said Miss Ormerod, "tell me 
 frankly! Does it come up to your expectations? 
 You're a painter, you're in Paris, you're in bo- 
 hemia; is it all as lovely as you thought it was 
 going to be? Does everybody talk Art and rave 
 about the time when he will 'make a school,' and 
 discuss his 'methods' over bocks and cigarettes? 
 What are you painting now — can we see your 
 studio?" 
 
 "Which am I to answer first?" he laughed. 
 
 "Talk! Tell me what the hfe's like." 
 
 "It's all right. Yes, some of us do prose about 
 our methods, I'm afraid, and we drink a great 
 many bocks — when we've the money to pay for 
 them; and my Paris isn't a bit like your Paris — 
 it's a different world." 
 
 "It must be heavenly. If I'd had any talent I 
 should have loved to go in for it myself. And 
 do you know any clever people besides artists? 
 Authors and actors, I mean? Do you know any 
 people with long hair? Frenchmen seem to go 
 to one extreme or the other — their hair's either 
 waving in the breeze or too short to part. All
 
 THE BACK OF BOHEMIA 299 
 
 the people who come here are the cropped and 
 dull ones." 
 
 "Kate!" 
 
 "Well, they are, Aunt ^ladge. . . . Do you 
 know Sardou, or Alphonse Daudet, or Sarah 
 Bernhardt?" 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "No. I know one or two English correspond- 
 ents. I did a piece of newspaper work myself 
 not long ago." 
 
 "Really?" 
 
 "In collaboration. Gladstone was expected in 
 Paris, and my friend thought he'd like to send an 
 Interview with him to his paper. We wrote it 
 together at one of the tables outside a cafe on 
 the Boul' INIich' while Gladstone was still travel- 
 ling towards the gare du Nord. We credited him 
 with some highly interesting views. I don't know 
 if they were ever published." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 "And do you prefer living here to being 
 in London?" inquired Lady Liddington; "or 
 couldn't you work so well at home?" 
 
 "I've scarcely thought about it," he said, with 
 a shrug; "this is my home now. Oh, I should 
 say London'd be ghastly — unless one were mak- 
 ing a big income. For the smaller fry " 
 
 "Dull?"
 
 300 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 "I shouldn't like it. I've heard about it. A 
 fellow that I know here works for London — 
 black and white work, you know. Oh, rather 
 funny ! Did you ever see a magazine called The 
 Lantern? It's very earnest — and only sixpence. 
 Last month poor Tassie had to illustrate the Hne, 
 'He strolled meditatively through the summer 
 night.' He made the man lighting a cigar. The 
 other day he got his sketch back; the Editor 
 wrote reprovingly that 'in The Laiitern they 
 didn't smoke.' " 
 
 He stayed an hour ; and, in the circumstances, 
 could one do less, when he rose, than fix an eve- 
 ning for his dining there? After he had dined 
 there, what was more natural than that he should 
 call? 
 
 Two afternoons, a dinner, and a host of mutual 
 memories. The earlier friendship was revived. 
 And Lady Liddington bowed to the inevitable. 
 
 They saw him frequently now. He sent tickets 
 to them, and met them to explain the virtues of 
 the pictures. And if the elder woman, failing 
 to understand why magenta cattle should graze 
 on purple grass, sometimes sat down with a head- 
 ache and left Kate to wander round the room 
 with him alone, was she a chaperon without de- 
 fence ? 
 
 They were not in love, but they were in dan-
 
 THE BACK OF BOHEMIA 301 
 
 ger. He had begun to look forward to the meet- 
 ings, and so had the girl. He interested her; 
 she was interesting to him. He had been right 
 in saying that they belonged to different worlds ; 
 and that their lives were the antithesis of each 
 other had, itself, a fascination — the deeper for the 
 fact that they had once been so much alike. He 
 knew his BuUier, his JNIontmartre, the minor 
 studios, and the third-rate cafes; he wasn't 
 unfamiHar with the interior of the nearest mont- 
 de-piete. But of the Paris unfolded to Lady 
 Liddington's niece he knew very little. It was 
 a novel experience to him to see a dinner-table 
 poetised by flowers and a Salviati service. It was 
 even a strange thing to Mallock tc be sitting in 
 a room with two ladies and listening to ladies' 
 conversation. 
 
 If, as the weeks passed, he told himself that 
 he was being a fool, it must be conceded that the 
 temptation to folly was a strong one ; but it must 
 also be acknowledged that he told the truth. He 
 already thought much too often of Miss Orinerod 
 for a man who could not hope to marry her, and 
 yet he continued to see her because he was too 
 weak to stay away. 
 
 Then he knew that he loved her. He ceased at 
 last to excuse himself by saying that he found 
 her "companionable," that there was "nothing in
 
 302 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 it"; he knew that he loved her, that the world 
 was peopled by men, women, and Kate Orme- 
 rod; that she stood on a plane by herself — dif- 
 ferent from everyone else. 
 
 Paris now — the Paris that was open to him — 
 stank in his nostrils. When he could not be with 
 her during the day, he worked doggedly, and 
 badly, finding occupation a relief to his impa- 
 tience ; but in the evening, to paint was impossible 
 — and it was in the evening that he ate his heart 
 out. 
 
 He had not the faintest right ever to own his 
 
 .feelings to her, and he was aware of it. If he 
 
 acted properly, he would assert that he had to go 
 
 to Caudebec or somewhere and say good-bye ; but 
 
 he could not string himself to the necessary pitch. 
 
 And, after all, he argued, since he confessed 
 nothing, asked for nothing, why should he deny 
 himself the only happiness that he possessed? 
 Yes, he was passionately in love with her — but, 
 if he didn't say so, what harm did it do? It 
 would end by making him infernally miserable? 
 Well, that was his affair! He would be infer- 
 nally miserable, anyhow ! 
 
 However, if the man was not disposed to do 
 his duty, the time had arrived when Lady Lid- 
 dington had to do hers. One morning, when he 
 called with some tickets and was shown into the
 
 THE BACK OF BOHEMIA SOS 
 
 drawing-room, she was in it alone, reading a 
 Tauchnitz novel. Kate was practising, he was 
 told; indeed, he could hear the piano. 
 
 "I was going to write to you," said Lady Lid- 
 dington; "we're returning to London." 
 
 He stared at her blankly. 
 
 "It's an awful bore; we meant to stay quite 
 two months longer. But things pull me back." 
 1 ou go soon i 
 
 "To-morrow. And I'm such a shocking sailor.'* 
 
 Miss Ormerod had begun Chopin's Second 
 Nocturne. Mallock listened to a line of it in- 
 tensely, without realising he listened. He felt 
 that he had turned pale, and that it was essential 
 to say something; but his mind refused to yield 
 a commonplace. Lady Liddington, who had 
 avoided plain-speaking with her niece by the 
 same pretext, was no longer confident that the 
 necessity for plain-speaking had been escaped. 
 
 "I'm sorry," he said, at last. He played with 
 the book she had put down. . . . "Is it good?" 
 he asked desperately. 
 
 "It's a romance. No, stereotyped. A romance 
 always ends with a marriage." 
 
 "Isn't that realistic? Marriage is generally 
 the end of romance." 
 
 "You're practical, Mr. Mallock." 
 
 "Quite the reverse, I'm afraid," he stammered,
 
 S04 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 hot with the sudden fear that she might be im- 
 puting mercenary motives. 
 
 Their gaze met in a pause, and she answered 
 him gently: 
 
 "Ah, well, to be practical is often distressing!" 
 
 "This is au revoir, then?" He got up. "Shall 
 I see Miss Ormerod?" 
 
 "I don't think she has been told you're here. 
 I'll let her know." 
 
 "Please don't trouble! I can say 'good-bye' as 
 I pass the room. I hope you will have a smooth 
 crossing." 
 
 He wasn't forbidden, and his face thanked her. 
 
 Kate lifted her head as the handle turned. 
 
 "You!" 
 
 "So you're going away?" he said huskily. 
 
 "We go to-morrow." Her voice was nervous. 
 
 "Your aunt just told me. I shan't see you any 
 more." 
 
 "Not before we leave, I suppose." 
 
 "I mayn't see you again at all. Perhaps you 
 won't come back to Paris." 
 
 "Oh, yes — some time!" 
 
 "I shall miss you horribly. I don't know what 
 I shall do without you." 
 
 "We've been very good friends." She stroked 
 a key of the piano slowly. "It seems a long while 
 since we met again."
 
 THE BACK OF BOHEMIA 305 
 
 "Good-bye!" said Mallock, jerkily. He put 
 out his hand, and she rose. His misery glowed 
 in his eves. In hers — but he dared not read them. 
 He caught her hand to his lips and kissed it, and 
 went out. Lady Liddington heard the door 
 close. . . . The nocturne was not resumed. 
 
 II 
 
 Well, it was all over! He had never been so 
 wretched in his life. He walked away aimlessly ; 
 it was nothing to him where he went. Outside 
 the Grand Hotel he collided with a gentleman 
 hurrying from the courtyard. Both looked round 
 with resentment. The gentleman was his father. 
 
 The next instant ISIallock realised that his 
 father was in deep mourning. "Good God! My 
 mother — ?" he faltered. 
 
 "Your mother was never better," exclaimed 
 the other gaily, clapping him on the shoulder; 
 "she sends her love, and a thousand messages! 
 I was on my way to you. Let me look at you. 
 Well, well, well! it is good to see you again, 
 Ernest. You know the news, don't you ?" 
 
 "News? What news?" 
 
 " 'What news' ? You haven't heard ? Prepare 
 yourself!" He chuckled. "Prepare yourself, 
 my boy!"
 
 306 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 "Something good?" 
 
 "It is very sad," returned his father, suddenly 
 assuming an expression of solemnity, "very ter- 
 rible. But as we have seen nothing of them for 
 so long — My brother and his son are dead — • 
 drowned. A yacht accident. Poor ^laurice ! He 
 had his faults, but — poor Maurice ! . . . Let's go 
 inside — you haven't lunched, have you? I'll tell 
 you all about it." 
 
 The bohemian listened, half stupefied. 
 
 "You're Lord Fernahoe?" he said. "You're 
 Lord Fernahoe now?" 
 
 "And you're the Honourable Ernest Mallock. 
 Better than your profession, eh? Not but what 
 you might have a studio still, if you fancied it. 
 It would be rather chic. And all the pretty 
 women could come and have their portraits 
 painted. But, to think you didn't know!" 
 
 "I haven't opened a paper for a week. But — 
 but Miss Ormerod's here, with Lady Liddington. 
 It's amazing they haven't seen it." 
 
 "Well, of course they've seen it!" 
 
 "I can swear they haven't. Great heavens, 
 Governor, what a change for you!" 
 
 "Yes," said the peer, complacently, "it'll be a 
 change after Coblenz. I've borne my reverses, 
 Ernest, I've never complained ; but my health is 
 not what it was. I — I haven't the physique for
 
 THE BACK OF BOHEMIA S07 
 
 the life of a poor man." He spoke as if he had 
 been condemned to be a dock-labourer. "How 
 do you think I'm looking?" 
 
 "You're looking as well as ever — and as 
 young." 
 
 "Nonsense, nonsense! Ha! ha! What'll you 
 drink? We had better have champagne — my 
 doctor advises a glass of champagne. . . . You 
 must order some clothes. You are — you are 
 damned shabby. Go to a tailor to-day ; don't for- 
 get. What are you doing with yourself this eve- 
 nmg? 
 
 "Nothing," said ]\Iallock. "That's to say " 
 
 "Nothing that won't keep. You'll meet me, 
 and we'll have a little dinner together at — Big- 
 non's is gone, isn't it?" 
 
 "Oh, yes!" 
 
 "Where do you go, as a rule?" 
 
 "I?" He smiled grimly. "I'm afraid my 
 haunts would hardly suit you." 
 
 "No, I suppose not. Well, all that's finished. 
 You've grown very handsome, Ernie; you re- 
 mind me of myself when I was your age. I may 
 say that now — an old man? . . . But you look 
 dazed. It was a horrible affair; poor Maurice! 
 poor INIaurice! But don't look so dazed." 
 
 "You've staggered me," said Mallock, gulping
 
 808 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 his wine. "I — I — If you don't mind, I'll leave 
 you now. Where shall we meet?" 
 
 "Call for me here," said Fernahoe, airly; "say 
 six o'clock. There are some things I've got to 
 attend to : I have to be shaved, and — By the 
 way, to-morrow I can let you have a substantial 
 sum; in the meanwhile, here's something to go 
 on with — I suppose it'll be useful? Six o'clock, 
 then, sharp. And don't forget the tailor. Ta! 
 ta!" 
 
 "Six o'clock. Thanks. I won't be late." 
 Lorn Fernahoe signed to a cabman. His son 
 stood stupidly on the kerb after the cab had rat- 
 tled away. His eyes were wide, and his mouth 
 was set. After a minute he crossed the road, and 
 turned down the avenue de I'Opera, still with the 
 fixed stare. Among the traffic of the rue de 
 Rivoli, he hesitated; he seemed in doubt. Then 
 he shrugged his shoulders, and slouched on — 
 away from fashion, to the place St. Michel. On 
 the boulevard one or two threw him a gi-eeting. 
 He did not know it. His face was grey ; now and 
 again he wiped the perspiration from it with a 
 hand that shook. Threading his way through a 
 maze of dilapidated streets, he came to a narrow 
 doorway, next a shop-window packed high with 
 charcoal and wood. There was a flight of dirty 
 stairs, and he mounted them very slowly.
 
 THE BACK OF BOHEMIA 309 
 
 The room was bedroom and parlour, too. The 
 bed was in disorder; on the table the remainder 
 of a stew that had been hot two hours ago was 
 stiffening in the gravy. A baby of twelve- 
 months, unkempt, uncared for, lay fretting on a 
 pillow on the floor; and a woman in a flannel 
 dressing-gown sat reading an English novelette. 
 She turned her untidy head, shedding a hair-pin 
 as she moved. 
 
 "Oh, here you are!" said Ernest Mallock's wife. 
 
 He threw himself on the bed. "I'm here!" 
 
 "Have you brought back any money?" 
 
 "Take all you want." 
 
 "My word!" she exclaimed, with delight. 
 "You're in luck!" 
 
 "Yes," he groaned, "I'm devilish lucky!" 
 
 She stooped for the fallen hair-pin, and picked 
 her teeth with it. 
 
 "Where does it come from? You've never sold 
 that old 'Solitude,' surely?" 
 
 "Oh, for God's sake be quiet!" he said, "I'm 
 tired." 
 
 "Where have you been? Everything's got 
 cold. Shall I hot it up for you?" 
 "No, never mind, Bessy." 
 "It won't take a minute." 
 "I don't want it." 
 "How's that?" she asked sullenly.
 
 310 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 "I had dejeuner out." 
 
 "Oh, you had your dirgennay out again! Who 
 with? You've taken to dirgennaying out a good 
 deal, haven't you ? Jolly for me, I'm sure — stuck 
 at 'ome with the kid while you're enjoying your- 
 self? Seems to me you're all alike." 
 
 "Does it?" 
 
 "Yes, it does," she said angrily, imitating his 
 inflexion; "yes, it does, Mr. Sneerer! And I tell 
 you more; I don't believe there's a decent one 
 among the lot of you. Do you hear?" 
 
 "Oh?" 
 
 ^^I saw you the other day in the rue Scribe, with 
 two women. Very classy they were — to look at. 
 You didn't see me, did you? But I saw you! 
 Who were tliey? Answer me that." 
 
 "They were ladies that I might have known 
 better if I had had more sense." 
 
 "I suppose that's meant for me? You didn't 
 look at the young one as if you'd like to eat her 
 up, did you?" 
 
 "Be quiet!" he burst out. "Now, then, be 
 quiet! I won't have you speak about her. I've 
 had enough!" 
 
 "Oh, what a fine gentleman! Not speak about 
 her, eh? His wife mustn't so much as speak about 
 her! We've come to a pretty pass! Listen to 
 your father, my Blessing! And she was no
 
 THE BACK OF BOHEMIA 311 
 
 beauty, neither. Find better figures than hers in 
 any Hfe class, for all her swank. Any girl who 
 ain't his wife, that's it! So long as she ain't his 
 wife, any girl's good enough for a man. I could 
 look like it, too, if you gave me the money to do 
 it on. 'Won't have me speak about her'? Who 
 do you think you're talking to? I've a good mind 
 to smack your face!" 
 
 He clasped his hands on his head, and lay mo- 
 tionless. 
 
 "I'm tired," he repeated, wearily. "For God's 
 sake, shut up! I want to go to sleep." 
 
 But it wasn't true — he wanted to think; he 
 wanted to curse himself and die. In me riory he 
 was re-living the night of his first meeting with 
 her; an English girl in a divan off the boulevard 
 St. Martin — insulted, on the evening of his pres- 
 ence, by a French student. He recalled the en- 
 thusiasm with which he had knocked the man 
 down; the general row — the cry of "English 
 chaps forward!" She wept, and blessed him, on 
 the pavement, at two o'clock in the morning. It 
 transpired that she was virtuous ; and he afforded 
 the quarter another example of "the English ec- 
 centricity." After reflection, he offered to send 
 her back to London. She had been unhappy 
 there — she wept again, and didn't want to go. 
 He supported her until she found employment
 
 S12 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 as a model. She was pretty; was the end sur- 
 prising? She thought she was in love with him 
 — let him see as much — and he was in love with 
 romance. Whom had he to study? Life with 
 her would be "very jolly"! It was a boy's in- 
 fatuation for bohemia, while bohemia was foreign 
 to him. Its front had been delightful. He mar- 
 ried her. This was the back of it. 
 
 She picked up the paper, and he regarded her 
 under lowered lids. She was pretty still, but he 
 hated every expression on her face. He hated 
 her every attitude, and the notes of her laugh. 
 Every little harmless habit that she had made his 
 nerves ache. 
 
 It was half-past four. This evening he would 
 have to confess the truth to his father. How to 
 do it? And he must tell Bessy of her new im- 
 portance and witness her ecstasies. 
 
 The hands of a tawdry French clock crept on. 
 If he meant to keep the appointment, he must 
 go soon! 
 
 The novelette engrossed her now. Flies 
 swarmed about the table, settling on the meat. 
 The dirty baby slept. When the clock struck 
 again, Mallock dragged himself from the unmade 
 bed to announce his marriage.
 
 THE LADY OF LYOXS' 
 
 The jovial solicitor who smacked his clients on 
 the back had absconded, and the minor poet had 
 no longer fifty pounds per annum. Although he 
 was a minor poet, which — strangely enough — is a 
 term of contempt in this country, though we are 
 enjoined to be grateful for even small mercies, he 
 was as human as minor novelists and minor critics, 
 and he suffered. Also he woke ; he realised how 
 small had been the world's demand for the wares 
 in which he dealt — he acknowledged that for 
 twenty years he had been living on his little in- 
 come, not on his little books. 
 
 His name was Smith. It was, perhaps, one of 
 the reasons why his poetry was unread. Only a 
 reviewer possessed of unusual courage could have 
 discovered "the great poetry of INIr. Smith." 
 Only a poet devoid of commercial instincts could 
 have failed to adopt a nom de guerre. 
 
 In the face of disaster Mr. Smith did not make 
 precisely this reflection, but he reflected painfully 
 that a lack of commercial ability was no longer a 
 matter to be recognised with a smile. He stood 
 among the daffodils in the village garden, and
 
 814 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 asked Heaven what would become of him. He 
 was seven-and- thirty; the only craft that he had 
 learnt was useless ; and he had to earn his bread- 
 and-cheese. 
 
 As Heaven returned no answer, he sought the 
 advice of friends. He was a lovable creature, 
 though a writing man, and his friends were sym- 
 pathetic. They all invited him to dinner, and 
 assured him warmly that they would bear his ne- 
 cessities in mind. If anything turned up, he 
 might rely upon their telegraphing to him. Being 
 of a trustful disposition, Mr. Smith returned to 
 the daffodils, encouraged. 
 
 And they withered while he waited for a tele- 
 gram. 
 
 When they hung their heads, he sought advice 
 again. This time his friends did not invite him 
 to dinner, but they pointed out to him, lest he 
 should overlook it, that he was a poet — in other 
 words, that he was a difficult person to serve. 
 "You have no experience, you see," they said 
 frankly. "You are intelligent, but you have no 
 experience, Robert." When a man is untravelled 
 in the groove that we ourselves tread, we say that 
 he has "no experience." 
 
 One afternoon the poet went abroad. The 
 journey cost him a penny, and he travelled from 
 Charing Cross as far as the Bank. He was bound
 
 THE LADY OF LYONS' 315 
 
 for an office in Lombard Street, and as he called 
 by appointment, a clerk showed him promptly 
 to Mr. Hutton's private room. 
 
 The business man who received him had once 
 been a little boy in a sailor suit, and he and Rob- 
 ert had played together in a nursery. To-day he 
 had numerous financial irons in the fire, and one 
 of them required an obedient gentleman to watch 
 it. Affection suggested Robert for the post. 
 The duties were simple, and the salary was slight, 
 but if the iron came out in good condition, there 
 was to be a slice of the iron, too. 
 
 They chatted for a long while. Robert was 
 admitted to some confidences about the other 
 irons — the patents, and the shares, and the con- 
 cessions. All the time that he listened he was 
 seeing the business man as a little boy in a sailor 
 suit again, and was awestruck to hear the little 
 boy talking so glibly of such mysteries. Blankly 
 he felt that he himself had omitted to grow up; 
 he decided that people were right in declaring 
 that he had no experience; it appeared to him 
 suddenly that he had learnt nothing in his life. 
 But, of course, he had learnt many things, though 
 never the most important one — how to make 
 money. 
 
 Often they were interrupted by the telephone 
 bell, and during one of the colloquies on the tele-
 
 316 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 phone Mr. Hutton seemed depressed. Robert 
 feared he was being browbeaten until he hung 
 up the receiver, and announced, smihng, that he 
 had "made five hundred pounds by that conver- 
 sation." It was miraculous. Robert had not 
 made five hundred pounds by twenty years of 
 work. 
 
 "Let's go out and get a cup of coffee," said 
 Mr. Hutton, and piloted the poet through a maze 
 of alleys to a retiring doorway. "What will you 
 have to drink?" The poet discovered that after 
 two o'clock "a cup of coffee" in the City is gen- 
 erally a synonym for a whisky-and-soda. 
 
 The little bar was crowded, and he was sur- 
 prised at seeing such a number of business men 
 doing nothing so leisurely. One man to whom he 
 was introduced asked him if he knew how the 
 "House" closed, but he did not even know what 
 it meant. They discoursed in groups, and a 
 strange language; Robert was flooded by com- 
 passion for the barmaid. All expounded different 
 views, and all the views were equally unintelli- 
 gible to him. The only point of unanimity he 
 perceived was the wisdom of having "a fiver each 
 way." As often as anybody entered, the several 
 groups waved hands, and the newcomer accepted 
 a whisky-and-soda with a piece of lemon in it, 
 among the group he fancied best. On leaving,
 
 THE LADY OF LYONS' 317 
 
 Mr. Hutton remarked that he had "sometimes 
 made as much as a thousand pounds by dropping 
 in there." Robert reeled. 
 
 Soon he went every day to the strange land 
 where man talked a language that he did not 
 know. It had been decided that he should watch 
 the iron in the neighbourhood, so that Mr. Hut- 
 ton might extend a guiding hand without discom- 
 fort, and an office was rented in Eastcheap. 
 Eastcheap is a sour-smelling thoroughfare into 
 which dirty loafers emerge from the courts of 
 Billingsgate in order that they may have more 
 room to spit. Distressing as Robert found it to 
 sit in the office, he found it more distressing to 
 go out. 
 
 Of course not many people see the City. 
 Myriads saw it once, but that was when they 
 came there in their youth. Few are to be dis- 
 covered in the City who remember how it looks. 
 Occasionally a clerk in his first berth may be 
 found who sees the City, but he is not promised 
 to the casual searcher, for City clerks as a body 
 are observant in the streets of one thing only. 
 They observe neckties. This passion, to which 
 the hosiers of the district pander inordinately, 
 was displayed to the poet between the hours of 
 one and two, wet or fine. From desk to food, 
 from food to desk, streamed the black multiude,
 
 318 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 expressionless, torpid and unseeing, until neck- 
 ties flaunted in a window; then the vacant faces 
 brightened, and there was a block. The rule of 
 the pavement is known everywhere excepting in 
 the City, where it is most needed; but at the 
 hosiers' windows pedestrianism became more than 
 an effort — it became a feat. 
 
 Robert's eyes had no custom in them; Robert 
 did see the City, and he was unhappier than he 
 had poetry to tell; for that matter, he did not* 
 try to tell it. He wrote nothing now but figures, 
 and commercially ungrammatical epistles which 
 took him a long time to compose. For twenty 
 years he had believed his rushlight was a star — 
 he had done with illusion at last. Illusion was in 
 its grave, and the Failure laid his hope of laurels 
 on the top. Yet he thought tenderly of Illusion. 
 The funeral was over, but he mourned. He had 
 embraced a new career, but he did not love it. 
 Although he repeated that the past was dead, he 
 could not prevent its ghost haunting Eastcheap. 
 There were moments when it chilled the iron. 
 
 Often, as he forced his dreary way to luncheon, 
 it walked beside him. He lunched sometimes with 
 his preserver in the restaurants of the Employ- 
 ers. Generally he lunched with the ghost in the 
 restaurants of the Employed. He noted that in 
 the former the meat was tainted less frequently.
 
 THE LADY OF LYONS' 319 
 
 On the other hand, the Employed were served 
 by clean, quiet girls instead of by sleezy, vocif- 
 erous waiters. 
 
 One afternoon he lunched at an establishment 
 that he had not tried before. The ghost had been 
 insistent all the morning. He found a vacant 
 seat, hung up his hat, and examined the bill of 
 fare. He was in one of the more modest restau- 
 rants of Messrs. Lyons, and around him young 
 men and women with blank faces chumped beef- 
 steak pudding, and read sixpenny editions of the 
 novels that are written for them. The girl be- 
 side him ordered apple-tart. Her voice was 
 pleasant, and momentarily he regretted that in 
 reading she leant her cheek upon her palm, for 
 she hid her profile. It should have been a pretty 
 profile, to match her voice. Moved by an impulse 
 of curiosity, he glanced at the page she pondered, 
 and then he dropped the menu : she was reading 
 his own verse! 
 
 "Good God!" he exclaimed. 
 
 "I beg your pardon?" said the girl, surveying 
 him with dignity. 
 
 "I apologise," stammered the poet; "I was 
 startled." 
 
 Evidently she found his excuse inadequate, 
 and he was thankful that at this moment they 
 were left with the table to themselves. "I meant
 
 320 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 that I was startled to see the book you were read- 
 ing," he explained. 
 
 "I see nothing startling in it," said the lady, 
 still frigid. 
 
 He felt that she might have expressed herself 
 more happily, but hew as in no position to rebuke 
 her. "Of course in one sense it isn't startling at 
 all," he concurred; "in fact, it's very feeble." 
 
 "I am afraid I can't agree with you," rejoined 
 his reader; and the haughtiness of her contradic- 
 tion warmed his heart. 
 
 "You can't mean you really hke it?" 
 
 "I hke it very much." She had grey eyes that 
 challenged him scornfully; he sunned himself in 
 her disdain. 
 
 "Did you buy it?" he asked, a tremor in his 
 tone. 
 
 "Really — !" she began. But his air was so re- 
 spectful that she added the next instant, "Yes, 
 for twopence, second-hand." 
 
 "Ah!" said the poet. "Still, it's a most ex- 
 traordinary occurrence." 
 
 She looked away from him with a frown; her 
 attention was divided between his verse and the 
 apple-tart. Robert sat a prey to tempation. To 
 melt her by avowing himself would be ridiculous, 
 but agreeable. Succumbing, he murmured:
 
 THE LADY OF LYONS' 321 
 
 "To tell you the truth, I am glad you like the 
 book." 
 
 "Eh?" she said. "Why?" 
 
 "Because I wrote it." 
 
 It should have been a dramatic moment, but 
 the girl bungled her part and disbelieved him. 
 
 Fully five minutes were devoted to convincing 
 her. However, the five minutes brought such a 
 flutter of pink to her cheeks, so tender a glow 
 into her eyes, that the time was by no means 
 wasted. 
 
 "I couldn't expect to meet a j)oet in the City," 
 she pleaded. 
 
 "And certainly I couldn't expect to meet any 
 Gentle Reader here," said Robert. He examined 
 the slim volume ruefully. 
 
 "In such good condition, and only twopence!" 
 he complained. 
 
 "If it had been more I mightn't have bought 
 it," she said. 
 
 He found himself resigned to the book's hav- 
 ing been marked down to twopence. 
 
 She told him that she wrote shorthand in an 
 office in Cornhill. Eastcheap lay in the same di- 
 rection, and after she had gone he felt that it 
 would have been pleasurable to walk some of the 
 way beside her.
 
 322 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 He was sorry, too, that he had omitted to in- 
 quire if she irradiated the restaurant daily. 
 
 On the morrow he betook himself to Lyons* 
 with hope. He descried the lady at a distant 
 table, and it had the charm of vacant chairs. 
 There was no reason why he should ignore them. 
 
 "You are often in the City, then?" she asked 
 as he sat down. 
 
 "I come every day," said Robert; and seeing 
 she was mystified, he added, "I am in an office 
 here, like you." 
 
 But plainly this mystified her more still. "Do 
 you mean you are in business?" 
 
 "Truly," he told her. "I think I shall have 
 roast-beef." 
 
 "I should try the mutton," she said. "But you 
 are a poet?" 
 
 "I used to fancy myself one." 
 
 It was very absurd, but before they paid their 
 bills he was informing her that he had divorced 
 his Muse, and was in a foreign land alone. This 
 time they left the restaurant together. 
 
 "That, O foreigner," said the lady of Lyons', 
 *'is the Roj^al Exchange!" 
 
 "I know," said Robert. "But what do they ex- 
 change in it?" 
 
 "I have no idea," she confessed. "If you like, 
 we will ask a policeman."
 
 THE LADY OF LYONS' 323 
 
 "A curious thing about policemen," remarked 
 the poet, "is that if you want a poHte answer, 
 you should avoid putting your question politely. 
 They are, conspicuously, a class who respect rude- 
 ness. How long have you been coming to the 
 City, to learn so much about it?" 
 
 "I have been coming to the City for nine 
 years," she said, "and I have learnt a great deal. 
 I know now where the Tower is, and which of the 
 benches under the trees makes you feel most 
 Harrison Ainsworthy. And I know the shop in 
 Cornhill that sells the best twopenny tarts. They 
 are small, but peerless." 
 
 "If you hadn't bought my verses you might 
 have had another," sighed Robert. "Some day, 
 when I have made my fortune, I shall give you 
 one." 
 
 "Thank you," she said. "I suppose you know 
 what you are looking at across the road?" 
 
 "I am looking at a bookshop," replied the poet. 
 
 "You were meant to see the JNIansion House," 
 demurred his guide, "where the Lord Mayor 
 lives." 
 
 "I do not like Lord Mayors," said Robert; 
 "they never ask me to their literary dinners." 
 
 "They are punished for it," said the girl. 
 "Once a year at midnight they drop their little.
 
 SM THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 glass slippers, and their beautiful coach turns 
 back into a pumpkin." 
 
 "It serves them right," said the poet venge- 
 fully. 
 
 But they were not always so foolish as this. 
 To meet at luncheon became their custom, and 
 sometimes their confidences were quite practical. 
 By dint of lunching hurriedly on occasion, they 
 made time to reach the Tower together, and he 
 approved her taste in benches. It was on the 
 bench one day when the sun shone that she told 
 him her history. Her history was so common- 
 place that she apologised for relating it, and her 
 surprise was vast that he fell to reverie. 
 
 "Why," he cried, "we have found a Moral! 
 It is you who are to be pitied, not I. What have 
 I to mourn in the City? I have buried nothing 
 here but the gift of making little verses. But you^ 
 you have buried the divinest gift of the gods, your 
 beautiful youth! You have never had any 
 pleasure in your life, yet you are content. I am 
 ashamed." 
 
 Not long afterwards his preserver exclaimed: 
 
 "Bobbie, I think you're getting acclimatised. 
 You're putting your back into it — if you don't 
 i;ake care you'll make money !" 
 
 "I aim at making money," said the poet with
 
 THE LADY OF LYONS' 325 
 
 commercial staidness; and added, irresponsibly^ 
 "I want to buy twopenny tarts." 
 
 It was just like him, to bid farewell to verse- 
 making, and then to find his best poetry in the 
 City. There are dreamers who would turn every 
 opportunity to disadvantage. 
 
 But the iron is shaping so well that when it 
 becomes a limited liability company with another 
 manager, Robert's slice should be substantial. 
 
 We may imagine him going back to the daffo- 
 dils. 
 
 It is not impossible that there will be orange 
 blossoms. 
 
 And in the meantime there is certainly the 
 luncheon hour.
 
 THE THIRD M 
 
 Otto Van Norden wrote ballads that were 
 popular; but to attain this eminence he had, in 
 his youth, sacrificed commercial prospects which 
 might easily have provided him with wealth. So 
 he often lamented his choice of a career as a ter- 
 rible mistake. Nevertheless, as he had some pri- 
 vate means, his life was no martyrdom, though 
 he aspired vainly to a mansion and a motor. He 
 had pleasant rooms, a good tailor, was frequently 
 to be seen at the second-best restaurants, and 
 spent as much of his time as possible on the Con- 
 tinent. It was, indeed. Van Norden who shocked 
 the owner of a Confession-book by describing his 
 favourite pastime as "Leaving England," and 
 his pet aversion as "Coming back to it." 
 
 At the age of forty he fell seriously in love. He 
 w^as a selfish man, though he inclined to lyrics 
 like "Heaven were a Void without Thee," and 
 "My Life for My Lady's Glove," and he battled 
 against the temptation bravely. Violet was 
 young, captivating, and sang his ballads with 
 considerable expression — he had really no chance. 
 He took a wife, and a villa in Dulwich ; and if the 
 
 326
 
 THE THIRD M 327 
 
 music pirates hadn't begun to be so industrious, 
 it is possible that he might have escaped regret, 
 even in the suburb that looks like a cemetery. 
 
 To write popular songs in a country where 
 stolen music was exposed for sale on every kerb- 
 stone buttered no parsnips; and for matrimony 
 the composer's private means were a tight fit. 
 Not many quarter-days had elapsed before he felt 
 that his marriage had been as big a blunder as his 
 profession. "Music and marriage!" sighed Van 
 Norden to the long, sad, empty roads of Dul- 
 wich; "but for music and marriage how well off 
 I might have been!" And then it struck him 
 that both the calamities of his life begun with 
 an M. 
 
 Some men might have attached no importance 
 to it ; Otto Van Norden was impressed. He said 
 that it was queer, this recurrence of the initial M 
 — he was of the opinion that it "meant some- 
 thing." Perhaps there was a warning to be de- 
 rived? Yes, that must be it! If a third catastro- 
 phe occurred, doubtless the third, too, would be 
 alliterative — and perhaps fatal. M was evidently 
 an initial ominous to him, an initial to be shunned. 
 From that moment he grew nervous of things be- 
 ginning with an M. He abandoned the wish to 
 revisit Mentone; and he would not have attempt- 
 ed a march if his publishers had begged for one.
 
 S28 THE MAN WHO U>:DERST00D WOMEN 
 
 More quarter-days flashed by, and meanwhile 
 his fortunes remained unchanged. Self-respect- 
 ing citizens still bought the stolen music, the pri- 
 vate income was still a tight fit, and Dulwich was 
 still the most melancholy of the suburbs. Then, 
 when he had been married for three annual rent- 
 als, and a water-rate over, hopes were entertained 
 of a son and heir — and Violet suggested calling 
 him "Marmaduke." The composer was pro- 
 foundly agitated; her proposal was no caprice — 
 she had an uncle Marmaduke with money — and 
 Van Norden knew very well that opposition must 
 appear to her unreasonable, since he could not 
 explain it without hurting her feelings. 
 
 He contested the point with tact. Kindly, but 
 firmly, he disparaged the name of "Marmaduke" 
 for months, all through the spring in fact. It 
 was a name, he pointed out, more adapted to an 
 elderly gentleman of portly presence than to a 
 baby. It was not a tractable name, not amenable 
 to abbreviation. Assuming that the child had a 
 sensitive disposition, Violet would condemn him 
 to years of suff'ering, for a boy who was christ- 
 ened "Marmaduke" would, when he went to 
 school, certainly be called "Marmalade." The 
 last argument was at once successful; Violet's 
 eyes filled with tears, and as she thanked her hus- 
 band for sparing the "poor little fellow" the con-
 
 THE THIRD M 329 
 
 sequences of her thoughtlessness, the composer's 
 rehef was deeper than any who mock presenti- 
 ments can understand. 
 
 This was the first M that had menaced him 
 since he perceived the significance of the initial 
 to him, and nothing else noteworthy occurred 
 until November. One day in November when a 
 pink-and-white bassinette was in readiness for 
 the little "fellow's" advent, the master of the 
 house awoke feeling as if he had a marble under 
 his tongue. He did not mention the matter to 
 Violet, but breakfasting with such an unfamiliar 
 mouth was so discomforting that he sent the serv- 
 ant up to Dr. Lachlan with a request to him to 
 look in during the morning. 
 
 "I don't know what's happened to my mouth, 
 Lachlan," he said; "it's for all the world as if a 
 marble had rolled underneath my tongue in the 
 night." 
 
 "Let's have a look at it," said the medical man. 
 "Ah ! Yes. Y-e-s, that hasn't come in the night 
 — it's been coming for some time." 
 
 "Is it serious?" 
 
 "No, not necessarily. It wants removing." 
 
 "Removing?" echoed Van Norden. "What 
 do you mean by 'removing' — you don't mean 'op- 
 erating'? Don't you think a — a good lotion
 
 330 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 "Oh, no, we shall have to operate," said Dr. 
 Lachlan. "You may put it at the morning after 
 next. Meantime, I'll get a competent anaesthet- 
 ist, and arrange about a nurse for you." 
 
 "But — but it's very serious indeed," faltered 
 the composer, dismayed. "Am I sure to get bet- 
 ter? People sink under operations; we know 
 that every operation is 'performed successfully,' 
 but the patient often dies the same day. What's 
 the matter with me, what have I got?" 
 
 "It's what we call 'Myxoma.' " 
 
 "My God!" exclaimed Van Norden. "It be- 
 gins with an M !" 
 
 He was now intensely alarmed for himself. He 
 was also alarmed lest the news should reach the 
 ears of Violet, who was in no condition to be told 
 such things. However, on the next morning but 
 one she was unable to rise, so the preliminaries 
 passed unnoticed by her. In a room on the first 
 floor, madame awaited the arrival of the son and 
 heir; in a room on the second, monsieur awaited 
 the arrival of the surgeon. Few circumstances 
 could have been more adverse to marital tranquil- 
 lity : few circumstances therefore could have been 
 less favourable to the operation. 
 
 The first person to tap at the second-floor door 
 was the nurse engaged by Dr. Lachlan. 
 
 "Good-morning, Nurse," said Van Norden.
 
 THE THIRD M 331 
 
 * 'Nobody has come yet ; sit down and make your- 
 self at home." 
 
 "Thank you," said the nurse. She added sym- 
 pathetically, putting on her apron. "It's a try- 
 ing time for you, I hear, what with one thing and 
 another, sir?" 
 
 Lachlan came in, as blithely as if it were a 
 party. "Well, how are we this morning?" he 
 asked. "Good spirits? That's right! You'll be 
 glad you've had this done — you'll feel much bet- 
 ter, once it's over. — Ah, here's the man I'm wait- 
 ing for! '^lorning, Major." 
 
 "Er, Dr. 3Iajor, pleased to meet you," mur- 
 mured the composer, feebly untruthful. Already 
 the bedroom was taking a strange aspect to him, 
 the aspect of a hospital. Bandages and bottles 
 seemed to have sprung from nowhere. Lachlan 
 poured fluids briskly in basins before the window, 
 and JNIajor set out mysterious articles from a 
 black bag on the chest of drawers. The para- 
 phernalia spread incessantly, and the nurse con- 
 tinued, as if by magic, to produce sheets, and cans 
 of hot water without having quitted the room. 
 
 "I think we'll move the bed. Nurse," said Lach- 
 lan, and they pulled it into the middle of the 
 floor. The ansesthetist felt the patient's pulse, 
 and applied the stethoscope; and Van Norden 
 noticed for the first time that the pattern of the
 
 332 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 wall-paper resembled pink mushrooms in bunches 
 of vermicelli. 
 
 An oppressive *'tent" was placed over his 
 mouth. He felt very helpless, very childish all 
 at once. The vapom* of the "A.C.E." grew suf- 
 focating; his heart began to thump as if it would 
 burst. He signalled the danger to Lachlan, and 
 Lachlan gave a nod. Van Norden glared im- 
 potently — he was sure that he was the victim of 
 a blunder, that this pounding of the heart was too 
 violent to be safe. Now there was a roaring in liis 
 ears. The idiots were killing him — and he was 
 gagged, defenceless ! Momentarily he was faint 
 with terror, and then a lethargy which he mis- 
 took for courage stole through him; it flattered 
 his vanity to perceive with what listlessness he 
 confronted death. He was being a hero! . . . 
 It was not unpleasant — it didn't matter. Noth- 
 ing mattered. Nothing mattered in the least. 
 
 His next impression was of being very 
 cramped. In the mist of his consciousness there 
 lurked the remembrance of the operation, and he 
 assumed vaguely that it was over. He lay wait- 
 ing to be congratulated, wondering why nobody 
 spoke to him. Had he been left alone ? He felt 
 so bewilderingly limp that he couldn't turn, but 
 he opened his mouth to say, "Are you there, 
 Lachlan?" and to his horror, emitted nothing but
 
 THE THIRD M 333 
 
 a baby's bleat. His mouth remained open with 
 amazement, and gigantic fingers suddenly thrust 
 something sickening into it, while an unfamiliar 
 voice made ridiculous noises at him. 
 
 Consternation held Van Norden spellbound. 
 There were seconds in which he feared that he 
 was insane. Presently another thought assailed 
 him, one so startling that his blood ran cold. Min- 
 utes passed, minutes too terrible for words to 
 paint. He gathered the fortitude to examine as 
 much of his person as was exposed: the hands 
 belonging to him were minute, the hands of an 
 infant! He stared at them aghast and shudder- 
 ing. There could be no doubt of it — he had died 
 under the operation, and had been born again! 
 All that was natural enough, but the unforeseen 
 and fearful thing was that he still remembered. 
 
 He was once more a baby. Whose ? The im- 
 mense import of the question throbbed in him. 
 Where he lay he could see no more of the room 
 than the ceihng, and he was unable to judge 
 whether he had been reincarnated in a mansion or 
 a hovel. There had been a royal princess ex- 
 pecting a baby, he reflected. "Great Scotland 
 Yard!" thought Van Norden, "suppose I'm Roy- 
 alty this time?" But the remaining pessimism in 
 him rejected the fancy almost as it rose. "Too 
 good to be true," he mused; "I expect my fa-
 
 334 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 ther's a beggarly artist, or a curate — I don't sup- 
 pose I'm even an only child. It's a ghastly situa- 
 tion — I wonder at what age one begins to for- 
 get?" 
 
 The woman with the gigantic fingers — or fin- 
 gers comparatively gigantic — was speaking to 
 someone now, and Van Norden listened intently, 
 in the hope of ascertaining something of his pros- 
 pects. 
 
 "Yes," said the woman, "and her, too, poor 
 soul — don't know anything about it yet of course ! 
 They won't tell her for days. He died a moment 
 before the mite was born. Wrote songs and such 
 like. Yes, they say the operation w^as quite suc- 
 cessful, but he didn't rally — too weak, you know. 
 Oh, awfully sad!" 
 
 "Grant me patience!" thought Van Norden; 
 "I might have known it — I'm in that damned 
 house in Dulwich still!" 
 
 "A quiet little thing, poor orphan, ain't it?" 
 the monthly nurse went on; and then she leant 
 over the cradle and made the ridiculous noise at 
 him again. In a burst of fury, Van Norden tried 
 to swear at her, but he could produce only the 
 baby's bleat. He yearned to be quiet, to be left 
 undisturbed — there was so much to consider. He 
 had allowed his life-policy to lapse, and now he 
 bitterly repented the false economy. He won-
 
 THE THIRD M 335 
 
 dered what the furniture would fetch, and if Vio- 
 let would be enabled to bring him up properly. 
 Perhaps his father-in-law would come to her as- 
 sistance? — his "grandfather," he ought to say 
 now! It would be a pretty kettle of fish if his 
 widow — that was to say his "mother" — were left 
 to her own resources. What would become of 
 him? A board school, and a junior clerkship! 
 "I suppose it's entirely problematical whether I 
 shall even inherit my musical talent?" mused the 
 unhappy infant. "It's a nice lookout for me, I 
 must say!" 
 
 "But there," added the woman, "a girl baby 
 always does keep quieter than a boy — I'm always 
 thankful to see it a girl. Ookytooky, then! Ain't 
 I, my precious? Lor, the blessed lamb's chok- 
 ing!" 
 
 Van Norden had indeed turned purple in the 
 face. A girl! Culminating calamity, a girl! The 
 blankness of the girl's outlook, the poverty of the 
 marriage that she must expect to make, was over- 
 whelming. "Now, why," Van Norden asked 
 herself passionately, ^'why has this thing hap- 
 pened to me? Among all the births that were 
 taking place in the world, couldn't they have 
 spared me a decent one ? I don't harp on a pal- 
 ace, but, say, reasonable advantages? Opulent 
 people are having sons every minute, yet I must
 
 336 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 go as the daughter of a widow in straitened cir- 
 cumstances. Upon my soul, it's heartrending!" 
 
 However, when she and Violet met again she 
 was somewhat consoled by the warmth of her 
 mother's welcome ; and after the news of the be- 
 reavement was broken, the young widow cooed 
 so tenderly of the manifold virtues of "darling 
 papa" that Van Norden was quite touched. "A 
 good sort!" meditated Van Norden, as Violet 
 joggled her up and down; "I had no idea at the 
 time that she appreciated me so much." 
 
 In hours of comparative resignation there was 
 nothing more fascinating to Van Norden, while 
 she lay in the pink-and-white bassinette, than to 
 mark the development of her new identity — the 
 process by which the trivial pains and pleasures 
 of the moment attained supreme importance, and 
 the pressing anxieties which beset her at the hour 
 of her birth became gradually blurred. The fact 
 would have appeared incredible to the baby for- 
 merly had she heard with how little fret and jar 
 the human mind adapted itself to another form 
 and sex; she would not have believed the Ego 
 could renounce so easily its interest in matters 
 that, to its previous incarnation, had been absorb- 
 ing. And doubtless, she reflected, she would dis- 
 believe it again later! 
 
 Her attitude towards the bottle, for instance,
 
 THE THIRD M 33T 
 
 fascinated her extremely. At first she had re- 
 garded it with disdain. Even when she recog- 
 nised its suitability to her physical needs, she had 
 merely tolerated the thing as a disagreeable ne- 
 cessity. This contempt, this suction under pro- 
 test, was very brief. Soon she grew to relish the 
 bottle, to clamour for it when it was late. Then, 
 too, she was able to extract amusement from a 
 coral-and-bells, and was again engrossed by the 
 ticking of a watch. "Marvellous!" thought Van 
 Norden, while she hovered at the parting of the 
 ways, "marvellous thing, Nature, upon my 
 word!" But, a trifle humiliated at moments like 
 these, she would throw the coral, or watch, on the 
 floor and set up a howl. The devoted Violet often 
 mistook the humiliation for a pin, and undressed 
 her — an indignity which annoyed Van Norden 
 more still. 
 
 Before she was six weeks old Van Norden had 
 ceased to consider the financial position, and ac- 
 cepted without questioning who provided ; she be- 
 gan to yield to the charm of the bottle and the 
 watch unreservedly, and had scarcely a remaining 
 care. Only while she plucked at Violet's crape, 
 the past whispered in her, and a dim conscious- 
 ness that the relations between her mother and 
 herself were involved clouded the infantile brow. 
 
 "What's she thinking about, a love?" Violet
 
 338 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 would murmur, swaying her to and fro. "Doesn't 
 she look worried, a pet!" And from the lap that 
 was once Van Norden's wife's, Van Norden 
 would raise great eyes to her solemnly. 
 
 When eight or nine months had passed, this 
 glimmer of memory, which had then become near- 
 ly extinct, was fanned to ardour by a painful cir- 
 cumstance. They had gone to Dieppe with Vio- 
 let's parents, and in the hotel Violet made the 
 acquaintance of a Major somebody. The ac- 
 quaintance had progressed when Van Norden 
 was first brought in contact with him in the gar- 
 den, and the gentleman paid the pretty widow 
 marked attentions, and grinned at her baby pro- 
 pitiatingly. 
 
 "Jolly little chap," remarked the Major, wor- 
 rying Van Norden with a forefinger. 
 
 "It's a little girl, Major," said Violet, smiling 
 reproval. 
 
 "Oh, confound it all! I mean how stupid of 
 me!" faltered the Major. "Lovely little thing, 
 anyhow. I suppose you're awfully proud of her, 
 Mrs. Van Norden, eh? The only pebble on the 
 beach, what? It seems awfully rum to see you 
 with a baby though — you look such a girl, don't 
 you know." 
 
 "What nonsense!" said Violet, blushing; "I'm 
 an elderly woman if one counts one's age by one's
 
 THE THIRD M 339 
 
 troubles." She glanced significantly at her weeds, 
 and sighed. 
 
 "Oh, ah, of course I understand; I — I can sym- 
 pathise, I can indeed. But you shouldn't think 
 of your troubles too much, Mrs. Van Norden, if 
 I may say so — you should buck up. Life, after 
 
 all, is " He struggled with his ej^eglass and 
 
 failed to enunciate his sentiments on life. 
 
 "Life is very, very strange," said Violet, gaz- 
 ing pensively at the sea. 
 
 "Isn't it?" said the Major eagerly. "Just 
 fancy, it's only a week since I met you, what?" 
 
 "Oh, I wasn't thinking of that," she murmured. 
 
 "J am," said the Major, "I think of it lots. It 
 seems so rum, don't you know, that I'd never seen 
 you till a week ago. Don't you think that some- 
 times people meet who were meant to meet, and 
 that, for them, a week scores more than years and 
 years of society between people who er — well, 
 who only happen to meet because they're intro- 
 duced, don't you know?" 
 
 Van Norden lay communing with herself. In 
 the little brain the voice of the past cried for rec- 
 ognition. She eyed the adults darkly, agitated 
 by the sense of a tragedy which she sought pite- 
 ously to define. The soul of the baby sprawling 
 on the cushions was sympto natic of marital jeal- 
 ousy, though the mind failed to diagnose the dis-
 
 S40 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 ease. Distressed and puzzled, Van Norden burst 
 into startling screams, and kicked her little limbs 
 about furiously. Violet was unable to pacify her ; 
 and, much alarmed, was about to dispatch the 
 Major for the nurse when, through the windows 
 of the salon, came the prelude to a song, and 
 someone began to sing "Heaven were a Void 
 without Thee." The baby's paroxysm ceased al- 
 most at once ; her gaze grew wide. Striking her 
 ear when it did, the ballad that she had created in 
 ber preceding incarnation revivified her conscious- 
 ness of the former life. The veil was rent; the 
 female infant was at heart a husband — and look- 
 ing in the faces of Violet and her new lover. Van 
 Norden remembered all. 
 
 She could say nothing — speech was not yet 
 granted to her — could not proclaim, "I am Otto," 
 though she beheld her widow wooed by another 
 man. Life holds no moment more terrible than 
 an experience like this. Nor did her agony fade 
 with her banishment from the scene. On the con- 
 trary, her helplessness intensified her sufferings; 
 too young as yet to toddle, incapable of intruding 
 where she wished, Van Norden was constantly 
 racked by tortures of the imagination. Consumed 
 with jealousy, and craving to be in the salon, she 
 was compelled to lie fuming in her cot — or was 
 strapped in her perambulator while her frenzied
 
 THE THIRD M 341 
 
 fancy followed Violet and the Major into the 
 Casino. 
 
 Soon she employed the only weapon in her 
 power, and kicked and screamed as often as an 
 attempt was made to remove her from Violet's 
 presence. By this means she witnessed much that 
 would otherwise have been hidden from her — 
 was indeed a witness of her successor's proposal. 
 Stricken with resentment, the babe that had once 
 been the widow's husband lay in her lap while the 
 Major begged her to be his wife. 
 
 "I know it's a bit early for me to speak," he 
 stammered, "but I can't help it — if I were to let 
 you go away without telling you how much I care 
 for you, I might never see you again. Only give 
 me a word — I'll wait. I'll be as patient as I can, 
 but tell me that there's a chance for me." 
 
 She was silent a long while ; evidently she was 
 much moved. At last she murmured, "I don't 
 know what to say." 
 
 "Can't vou care a bit for me?" 
 
 "Ah, it isn't that!" she owned tearfully. 
 
 "Darling! Dearest!" 
 
 "Sh!" she said, "you oughtn't. It's so soon; 
 and — oh, I don't know, there's so much to consid- 
 er. There's my child." She clasped Van Nor- 
 den protectively. 
 
 "You don't suppose I'd be rough on it?" cried
 
 S42 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 the Major. "Why, I give you my word — just 
 as if it were my own. Violet, in a few months' 
 time? Will you marry me in a few months' 
 time?" 
 
 He leant lower, and she raised her gaze; the 
 next instant they had kissed across Van Norden's 
 head. All the rekindled manliood in the infant's 
 consciousness flamed to avenge the outrage, 
 burned to strike the supplanter down, to destroy 
 him. The disparity between the virile impulse 
 and the tiny frame was maddening. Purpling 
 with shame and indignation, Van Norden reared 
 to spit at him, but could only dribble. 
 
 The human brain at the age of nine months is 
 incapable of supporting a strain of this degree. 
 Soon afterwards Violet had to send in hot haste 
 for a medical man. After an examination, he 
 spoke gravely of removing something. 
 
 " 'Removing' something? You don't mean 
 ^operating' ?" 
 
 "Yes, w^e shall have to operate," answered the 
 doctor. 
 
 There was a morning when a hospital nurse 
 came to the cot, putting on an apron, and the 
 surgeon followed. Violet and the Major were 
 present, the Major soothing her. 
 
 "I think we'll move the bed," said the surgeon;
 
 THE THIRD M 343 
 
 and Van Norden lay staring through the window 
 at the brilHant sky. 
 
 The room began to acquire a novel air. The 
 nurse produced sheets and cans of hot water from 
 nowhere; the surgeon poured fluids in basins 
 briskly. The INIajor set out mysterious articles 
 from a black bag on the chest of drawers. The 
 sky developed a pattern of pink mushrooms and 
 bunches of vermicelli — and Van Norden came to 
 his senses. 
 
 He saw Lachlan looking at him. 
 
 "Well, how do you feel?" asked Lachlan. 
 "We've got rid of your Myxoma for you. And 
 your wife's first-rate. You've a little son waiting 
 downstairs — fine boy, too!" 
 
 "Fine boy?" murmured the composer drowsily. 
 "No, I was a fine girl.'* 
 
 "Not quite come round yet. Nurse," said 
 Lachlan; "let him sleep the rest of it off, and 
 he'll be as right as rain!"
 
 THE BISHOP'S COMEDY 
 
 The Bishop of Westborough had seldom 
 found himself in a more delicate position. Since 
 Sweetbay objected so strenuously to its rector 
 being a dramatist, Sweetbay was clearly no place 
 for the rector; and it devolved upon his lordship 
 to intimate the fact. But secretly his lordship 
 was also guilty of dramatic authorship, and in- 
 stalments of his comedy were even now in the 
 hands of that accomphshed actress. Miss Kitty 
 Clarges. For this reason, and another, the Bish- 
 op had wakeful nights. 
 
 However, he did what was required. With all 
 his customary blandness, and perhaps a shade 
 more, he pointed out to the Rev. Baker Barling 
 that the parish of Sweetbay was unsuitable for 
 him, and offered him instead a living which com- 
 mended itself to the Barlings not at all. Indeed, 
 Mrs. Baker Barling was so highly incensed by 
 the removal, that the rector had on several occa- 
 sions to say "My dear!" to her reprovingly. 
 
 The Bishop was young for a bishop. His 
 
 344
 
 THE BISHOP'S COMEDY 345 
 
 classical features, and the dignity of his carriage, 
 would have compelled attention even if he had 
 been a mere man. He never said anything note- 
 worthy, but he voiced the sentiments of the un- 
 thinking in stately language. This made him 
 generally admired. It is not to be inferred that 
 he was insincere — he had been granted a popular 
 mind ; he shared with the ma j ority a strong aver- 
 sion from disagreeable truths. His widest re- 
 flections were bounded by the word "Unpleas- 
 ant," and every truth that was unpleasant was to 
 the Bishop of Westborough "one of those things 
 that are better left undiscussed." He had a warm 
 affection for this phrase, which occurred in all his 
 articles for the cultured reviews. It was a phrase 
 that suggested much earnestness of thought, 
 while it spared him the exertion of thinking at 
 all. 
 
 Domestically he had been no less fortunate 
 than in his mental limitations. He possessed a 
 little wife, who listened to him with the utmost 
 patience, and he had seen both his girls make 
 brilliant matches in their first season. The his- 
 tory of the bridegroom had, in each case, been 
 "one of those things that are better left undis- 
 cussed." Accordingly, the Bishop boasted a 
 grateful heart; in fact when he reflected how 
 abundantly Providence had blessed him, he was
 
 346 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 more than normally horrified to think of the im- 
 pious murmiirings of the poor. 
 
 That a personage of his environment and dis- 
 position had been tempted towards so unepisco- 
 pal a course as writing a comedy, proves how true 
 it is that nothing happens but the unforeseen. It 
 was one of the speediest conquests of Miss 
 Clarges' career — a career in which peers had been 
 ' plentiful, but prelates had hitherto been lacking. 
 He had made her acquaintance at a reception — 
 she was clever off the stage as well as on it and 
 had always tempered her indiscretions with tact ; 
 duchesses called her "dear." He thought her the 
 most fascinating woman he had ever met, and 
 talked to her about the conditions of the Enghsh 
 stage with considerable satisfaction to himself. 
 
 "What a dramatist your lordship would have 
 made if you had not been a bishop!" she mur- 
 mured, with rapt eyes. 
 
 "Oh — er — you are jesting," said the Bishop, 
 asking for more. 
 
 "No, indeed — I mean it," returned the lady 
 reverently. "You have what we call the 'sense 
 of the theatre.' And it is so rare! You startled 
 me just now — you know by intuition things that 
 the professional dramatist needs years of experi- 
 ence to find out. I can't tell you how extraordin-
 
 THE BISHOP'S COMEDY 347 
 
 ary it is!" She regarded him as if she were be- 
 ing confronted by a miracle. 
 
 Partly because he was very vain, and partly be- 
 cause Miss Clarges was very good-looking, the 
 lie that she forgot almost as soon as it was spoken 
 had hngered caressingly with the Bishop. Sitting 
 in the Palace one afternoon with nothing to do, 
 he found himself scribbling "Act I. — A Draw- 
 ing Room." He had no definite intention of con- 
 tinuing, still less had he a definite plot; but like 
 everyone who is deficient in self-criticism, he 
 wrote with prodigious facility, and his first act 
 was finished in a few days. 
 
 Miss Clarges had been a good deal surprised 
 to receive a semi-humorous note from the Bishop 
 of Westborough, reminding her of their conver- 
 sation and hinting that he would be glad to have 
 her opinion of "a dramatic bantling." Tea and 
 a tete-a-tete followed in the lady's boudoir. She 
 found Act I all that she had dreaded, and told 
 him it was most original. Beaming with impor- 
 tance, he perpetrated Act II, and read her that. 
 She was contemplating a season of management, 
 and in sanguine moments reflected that a prac- 
 tised hand might knock the Bishop's comedy into 
 something like shape, and that the Bishop's name 
 on the bills would be well worth having. So she 
 offered various suggestions about the leading
 
 848 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 part, and was at home as often as he chose to 
 call — and for some weeks he had chosen to call 
 very often indeed. 
 
 Remember that he was only fifty. He had 
 married when he was twenty-five, married a girl 
 who was taken by his handsome face, and who 
 brought him a very respectable dower. Though 
 the dower had fascinated him more than the girl, 
 the courtship had comprised his sentimental ex- 
 periences. As has been said, he had had no rea- 
 son to complain of his choice — he had been re- 
 markably successful in all his relationships — ^he 
 felt that his wife worshipped him, and her wor- 
 ship, and his worldly progress, had contented him 
 fully. But now, for the first time in his career, he 
 was thrown into intimate association with a wom- 
 an who had captivated those who were seeing life, 
 and those who had seen it — and the Bishop of 
 Westborough fell in love with her as violently as 
 many wiser men had done before him. 
 
 As for her, it was the first time in the woman's 
 career that she had been openly admired by a 
 bishop. At the beginning she was attracted by 
 his reputation — much as her youngest adorers 
 had been attracted by her own — but presently 
 she was attracted by his homage. He appealed to 
 her one weakness, her vanity. Though she 
 thought it a pity that he wanted to write a com-
 
 THE BISHOP'S COMEDY 349 
 
 edy, she considered him a great man; his pro- 
 found belief in himself, supported by a nation's 
 esteem, imposed on her. To have made a con- 
 quest of a pillar of the Church flattered her inor- 
 dinately; the novelty of the situation had its ef- 
 fect on the actress, too — and, to her unspeakable 
 amazement, Kitty Clarges fell in love with the 
 Bishop. 
 
 It was at this juncture that circumstances had 
 forced him to mortify the rector of Sweetbay. 
 
 "The affair makes me doubt whether I ought 
 to proceed with my own play," he admitted to 
 her one afternoon. 
 
 "My dear friend!" She meant "What rot!" 
 but she no longer said "What rot!" even to other 
 actresses ; and she wore dove-coloured gowns, and 
 had been to hear him preach. The higher life 
 was a little trying, but she liked to feel worthier 
 of him. 
 
 "My action in the matter may be misconstrued. 
 Of course, I've simply deferred to the local preju- 
 dice, but it may be thought that / disapprove of 
 the man's tendencies. If I figured as a dramatist 
 myself a little later, I might be placed in an am- 
 biguous position. . . . Perhaps we might over- 
 come the difficulty by a pseudonym?" 
 
 She looked blank. "Your lordship's name wiU
 
 350 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 be a draw; I'm afraid a pseudonym would mean 
 waiving a great deal." 
 
 "Financially? The pecuniary result is not im- 
 portant to me." 
 
 But it was important to her. "If the secret 
 were really kept, you'd be waiving all the kudos 
 too," she added. 
 
 "Well, we must consider," said the Bishop, 
 clinking the ice in his glass; "you shall advise 
 me — though I fear I'm exceeding an author's 
 privileges. By the way, does the manageress al- 
 ways offer the author a whisky-and-soda?" 
 
 "She offered you an alternative," said Miss 
 Clarges, laughing; "the whisky-and-soda was 
 your choice. But you don't really mean to throw 
 the comedy up, do you? Think of poor me!" 
 
 The Bishop's eyes were eloquent. "Thinking 
 of you," he said, after a lingering gaze, "I have 
 this to say: you will be put to considerable ex- 
 pense in bringing out my work, and, novice as I 
 am, I'm aware that a theatre is a heavy specula- 
 tion; if I withhold the advantage of my name 
 from the piece, I shall claim to share your risk." 
 
 "You are very generous, dear friend; I don't 
 think I could say 'yes' to that." 
 
 "It is no more than fair." 
 "I'd rather not. I — I shouldn't care for you 
 to find money for me!" said Kitty Clarges — and
 
 THE BISHOP'S COMEDY 351 
 
 was conscious that she had soared into the higher 
 hfe indeed. 
 
 "You are scarcely treating me as the dear 
 friend you allow me to believe myself," urged the 
 Bishop, missing the greatest compliment of his 
 life. 
 
 "Oh!" she said under her breath. 
 
 "I should be serving my own ends. And be- 
 sides " 
 
 "Besides— what?" 
 
 "It would make me very happy to think that I 
 served you'' 
 
 Her eyelids fell. "You have served me." 
 
 "I rejoice to hear it. May I ask how?" 
 
 "You've served me by your friendship. You've 
 given me different thoughts, taken me out of 
 myself, done me good — in some ways." She 
 sighed deeply. "I've learnt that there are so 
 much realer things than the shams that satisfied 
 me before we met. I've been a very . . . worldly 
 woman; you know, don't you?" 
 
 "Few human beings are stronger than tempta- 
 tions, child," he said melodiously; "and yours 
 must have been many." 
 
 "I used to want you to think me better than I 
 am. Now I — I do and I don't. Oh, I can't ex- 
 plain!"
 
 S52 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 "You are showing me your heart — ^you need 
 not spell it." 
 
 "I suppose what I mean really is that I want 
 you to know me as I am, and yet to hke me just 
 as much. I wonder if you would?" 
 
 He laid a gentle hand upon her shoulder. 
 *'Why not put me to the test?" 
 
 "I daren't," she said. 
 
 "Am I so hard?" 
 
 She shook her head, silently. 
 
 "What then?" 
 
 "I'm so bad," she whispered. She drooped a 
 little nearer to him. 
 
 "Why do you say such things?" cried the Bish- 
 op; "you hurt me!" 
 
 "Haven't you met other sinners?" 
 
 "I would have had your past free from sin." 
 
 "Oh, my past?" she sobbed, and bowed herself 
 in his arms. "My past is past — I'm sinning 
 now !" 
 
 Much may be done by earnest endeavour, and 
 he persuaded himself that his embrace was epis- 
 copal. 
 
 "My child," he murmured at last, soothing her 
 tenderly, "I will not affect to misunderstand 
 what you have said — it would be a false kindness 
 to you. Nor will I be guilty of conceahng the 
 transgressions of my own heart. Were I a
 
 THE BISHOP'S COMEDY 353 
 
 younger man, I might doubt the righteousness of 
 owning that the attachment is mutual; but the 
 years bring wisdom and at my age we see deep- 
 ly. My duty is to help you, and I realise that I 
 can help you only by a perfect candour. I ack- 
 nowledge, therefore, that you are indeed most 
 dear to me." 
 
 "Oh, you are great!" she exclaimed. "I shall 
 see you still? Promise you'll come here — don't 
 let me lose you! Say it! Say again you love 
 me!" 
 
 "You are indeed most dear to me," repeated 
 the Bishop, who thought this way of putting it 
 sounded more innocent. He got up and paced 
 the room with agitation. "You ask me if I will 
 still come here. I do not disguise from myself 
 that many might think that I should answer 'no' ; 
 many might hold it my duty to desert you in the 
 conflict that must be waged, to leave you to bear 
 the brunt of it alone. I am not one of them. 
 Flight is at best the refuge of a coward. Dougli- 
 tier than to flee temptation is to confront and con- 
 quer it." He swept the hair from his brow with 
 a noble gesture. "I recognise that my highest 
 duty is to share your struggles — to solace and 
 sustain you. Yes, I will come! We have a 
 mighty battle before us, you and I — and we will 
 fight side by side, my comrade, till we win!"
 
 354 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 In other words, he ventured to go to tea there 
 all the same, and had whisky-and-soda when it 
 wasn't tea-time. 
 
 II 
 
 How much of what the Stage Door Club said 
 about them was fact and how much of it was 
 fiction, is a thing that could be decided only by 
 the Bishop or Miss Clarges — neither of whom is 
 to be consulted on the subject. But the Rev. 
 Baker Barling, who frequently dropped into the 
 Club for the house dinner, or a game of poker, 
 heard the gossip; and Baker Barling confided it 
 to Mrs. Baker Barling; and Mrs. Baker Barling, 
 whose wrath against the Bishop had in no way 
 abated, manoeuvered for the joy of condoling 
 with the Bishop's wife. 
 
 Miss Clarges was paralysed one morning by a 
 note in which "Mrs. Lullieton Meadows," men- 
 tioning that her husband was the Bishop of West- 
 borough, requested the actress to receive her upon 
 a matter of the utmost importance the same aft- 
 ernoon. The actress's first impulse was to be 
 "out" when the lady called; her second, to tele- 
 graph to the Bishop for advice. The fear of 
 driving Mrs. Meadows to extremities, and the 
 thought that a telegram might fall into the wrong
 
 THE BISHOP'S COMEDY 355 
 
 hands, prevented her adopting either course. She 
 could only pray for the ability to persuade the 
 visitor that her suspicions were unfounded, and 
 she felt sick with misgiving as the day wore on. 
 
 How extraordinarv of the woman! Whether 
 she meant to be offensive, or pathetic, what a 
 folly of her to come! On the stage, of course, 
 such scenes were usual, and Kitty Clarges knew 
 exactly how she would have to behave there — 
 that she would be first mocking, then attentive, 
 and finally moved to repentance. But the the- 
 atre was one thing, and life was another. In real 
 life it was preposterous of a person to seek an 
 interview and plead for the return of a husband's 
 heart; in real life it was impossible to return a 
 heart, even if one wished to do it. And in this 
 case, the wish was lacking; Miss Clarges was so 
 infatuated by the Bishop that she had even been 
 jealous to remember that another woman had a 
 legal claim to him. 
 
 At the tingle of the bell, she caught her breath. 
 She had never seen "the other woman," and 
 mixed with her apprehension was a strong curi- 
 osity to know what his wife was like. "Mrs. 
 Meadows," announced the maid. The actress 
 turned to the doorway, trembling, and saw that 
 the lady was a dowdy little woman with a dreary
 
 856 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 face; she looked as if she lived at Tunbridge 
 Wells. 
 
 "Mrs. Meadows — how good of you to call!" 
 
 Mrs. Meadows advanced awkwardly; it was 
 evident that she was painfully embarrassed. 
 "Miss Clarges? I hope I haven't put you to any 
 inconvenience?" she murmured. 
 
 "It is an immense pleasure to me to meet you. 
 Won't you sit down?" 
 
 For an instant the Bishop's wife hesitated. 
 Then she sat at the extreme edge of a chair, and 
 moistened her lips. 
 
 "My visit must appear very strange to you?" 
 
 "Most kind!" said Kitty Clarges. "How is 
 his lordship getting on with his play? It'U soon 
 be finished now, I suppose?" 
 
 "I daresay — I really don't know; I didn't come 
 to talk about the play," Mrs. Meadows faltered; 
 "I came because j^ou might do more for me than 
 anybody else alive! Miss Clarges, my husband 
 is in love with you." 
 
 The start, the bewilderment in the eyes, was 
 admirable. "My . . . dear Mrs. Meadows?" 
 
 "You need not trouble to deny it," said the 
 lady quietly, "because he has acknowledged it to 
 me. But that isn't all — you are in love with my 
 husband." 
 
 "Are you here to insult me?" cried Miss Clarg-
 
 THE BISHOP'S COMEDY 357 
 
 es, rising. "I have the honour to be one of his 
 lordship's friends, he has been pleased to discuss 
 his comedy with me. Not unnatural, I think? 
 Especially as I hope to produce the piece. As 
 for . . . what you say, there has never been a 
 word, a syllable — our conversation might have 
 been phonographed for all London to hear." The 
 indignation of her voice quivered into pain. "I 
 wouldn't have had this happen for the world — I 
 can't understand it!" She struggled with a sob, 
 and suppressed it proudly. "It's cruel!'* 
 
 "I don't wonder that he admires you," said his 
 wife thoughtfull}^; "you have great talent. But 
 I have seen one of your letters to him. Here it 
 is! 
 
 Miss Clarges gasped, and looked at it. She 
 sat down again very slowly. "All right," she 
 said. "I am fond of your husband! Well?" 
 
 "It was finding your letter that made me write 
 to you. I heard weeks ago that he was mad 
 about you, but the letter showed me that you 
 cared for him. Oh, I know that I oughtn't to 
 have written ! I considered a long time before I 
 made up my mind. But there was so much at 
 stake, I thought you might help me. If you will 
 listen " 
 
 "What for?" exclaimed Miss Clarges. "What's 
 the use of my listening? Even if I promised you
 
 858 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 not to see him again — I wouldn't promise it, but 
 if I did — would it make him any fonder of you? 
 Do you think, if I lost a man, I should beg the 
 other woman to give him back to me? I should 
 know she couldn't do it ; I should know I might 
 as well beg her to give me back — my innocence. 
 And I shouldn't reproach her, either! I'd re- 
 proach myself! I should call myself a fool for 
 not holding my own. Women like me don't lose 
 the man they want — we know how easy it is for 
 him to leave us, and we take the trouble to keep 
 him. It's you good women who are always being 
 left; after you've caught the man, you think 
 you've nothing more to do. Marriage is the end 
 of your Httle story, so you take it for granted it 
 must be the end of his. The more you love him, 
 the sooner you bore him. You go bankrupt in 
 the honeymoon — you're a back number to him 
 before you've been married a month — he knows 
 all your life, and all your mind, and all your 
 moods. You haven't a surprise in reserve for 
 him — and then you wonder he yawns. Great 
 heavens! To hold a man's interest, show him 
 your heart as you pull out a tape measure — an 
 inch at a time. I adore your husband ; I venerate 
 him ! My guilty love has made me a purer wom- 
 an. You can't realise that — I don't expect you to 
 realise it ; but surely vou must know that — if you
 
 THE BISHOP'S COMEDY 359 
 
 wept and went down on your knees to me — I 
 couldn't say, 'Because the right's all on your side, 
 he shall never think about me any more'?" 
 
 "You misunderstand the object of my visit," 
 said Mrs. Meadows meekly. "I didn't come to 
 weep to you ; I didn't come to beg you to say that 
 he should never think about you any more. I 
 came to beg you to tell me what you find in liim 
 to love." 
 
 "Eh?" ejaculated Miss Clarges. 
 
 "I came to beg you to tell me what you find in 
 him to love," repeated the elder woman in plain- 
 tive tones. "You see, to you he is only an epi- 
 sode; but unless I choose to make a scandal — 
 and I have daughters to consider — I must expect 
 to spend many more years with him. If you will 
 help me to discover some attraction in him, it will 
 make hfe far easier for me." 
 
 Kitty Clarges sat staring at her dumbly. "You 
 f-find no attraction in him?" she stammered at 
 last. 
 
 "It is unconventional of me to admit it to you; 
 but, as I say, there is so much at stake — I feel 
 justified in asking your assistance. To me he is 
 tedious beyond words to tell. If you would ex- 
 plain why you adore him, if you would show me 
 some merit, some spark of talent, or wit, or hu- 
 mour, something to make his pretensions less in-
 
 360 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 tolerable — you don't know how thankful to you 
 I should be." 
 
 "Your husband is a great man." She spoke 
 with a touch of uncertainty. 
 
 *'Oh, no! And I should be foolish to ask so 
 much — a moderately intelligent man is all that a 
 woman like me has the right to expect. The 
 Bishop is unfortunately very, very dull. Believe 
 me, I have tried most conscientiously to be de- 
 ceived by him. I used to read his Press notices 
 and say, 'Look what the newspapers say about 
 him — it must be true!' But I knew it wasn't. 
 I used to listen to his sermons — there aren't 
 many of them ; they've been the same sermons for 
 twenty years — and say, 'What lovely language, 
 what noble thoughts ! How proud his little Mil- 
 dred should be !' But, though I was a young girl 
 then, I knew that the lovely language was all 
 sound and no sense, and that the noble thoughts 
 came out of the Dictionary of Quotation. O 
 Miss Clarges ! you are a brilliant woman, far, far 
 cleverer than I — he must have some stray virtue 
 that my earnest search hasn t brought to light or 
 you couldn't gush so romantically about him. 
 Help me to see it ! Think how he wearies me — 
 tell me what the virtue is!" 
 
 The actress was breathing heavily, her nostrils 
 fluttered ; on her bloodless cheeks the dehcacy of
 
 THE BISHOP'S COMEDY 361 
 
 "Maiden-bloom" stood out in unbecoming 
 blotches. To hear that she idoHsed a man whom 
 this little provincial in last's year's fashions dis- 
 dained as a bore, robbed her of speech. She had 
 not believed there could be such depths of humil- 
 iation in the world. 
 
 Some seconds passed, while the supphant 
 watched her wistfully. 
 
 "If you don't care for your husband, I'm afraid 
 I couldn't teach you to love him." 
 
 "No, no; I only thought you might help me 
 to put up with him; I'm not unreasonable — I'd 
 be grateful for small mercies. If you'd mention 
 a ray of interest in him, I'd keep my eyes on that, 
 and make the most of it. . . . You're not vexed 
 with me for coming?" 
 
 "Oh, not at all; I — I suppose you've been very 
 . . . amiable, our interview has been rather 
 quaint; I'm sorry I can't oblige you." 
 
 "Well," sighed Mrs. Meadows, "it can't be 
 helped. But I must say I'm disappointed ! When 
 I found out there was a woman in love with him, 
 it simply amazed me ! I felt it only right to con- 
 sult you — it seemed such an opportunity to im- 
 prove matters at heme. Still, there it is, if you 
 can't tell me, you can't I" She was very down- 
 cast. "Then I'll say 'Good-afternoon.' "
 
 362 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 "May I offer you some — tea?" quavered Kitty, 
 clinging to the mantelpiece. 
 
 "Thank you so much, but I'm afraid I must 
 be going now ; I promised to see our Secretary at 
 the office of the Mission Fund at four o'clock- 
 Good-bye, Miss Clarges. You needn't tell the 
 Bishop that I called. It has been quite useless." 
 
 She sighed herself out. 
 
 Now, though Kitty Clarges endeavoured to 
 persuade herself by turns that Mrs. Meadows 
 was a fool incapable of appreciating her husband, 
 and that Mrs. Meadows was a diplomat scheming 
 to disenchant her with him, both endeavours were 
 unsuccessful. She could not think the woman 
 an utter idiot, and still less was it possible to 
 think her a genius. Kitty Clarges was less en- 
 tranced by the Bishop in their next meeting. Be- 
 tween them lurked a dowdy httle figure, regard- 
 ing her with astonished eyes. The astonishment 
 shamed her as no homily could have ever done. 
 The figure was present at all their meetings, and 
 often she lost sight of the Bishop's classical fea- 
 tures and could see nothing but his wife's eyes 
 wondering at her. His eloquence was no longer 
 thrilling — she was obsessed by the knowledge 
 that it wasn't good enough for the woman in the 
 modes of Tunbridge Wells. 
 
 Before long the sight of her own dove-coloured
 
 THE BISHOP'S COMEDY 363 
 
 gowns began to get on her nerves, and gradually 
 she discarded them. Once, when the Bishop pro- 
 posed to visit her, she told him that she would be 
 lunching out. A few days later she wrote that 
 unforeseen circumstances denied her the hope of 
 producing his comedy. His urgent letter of in- 
 quiry remained unanswered. When he called for 
 an explanation she was "not at home."
 
 A REVERIE 
 
 Rebecca is in the bedroom, dressing; and 
 Lucy, who looked very sweet in her simple frock, 
 has gone to some entertainment at her school. So 
 I am alone. It's a comfortable chair; and the 
 room is quiet, though overhead I hear my wife 
 as she moves to and fro between the wardrobe and 
 the toilet-table. She has heavy feet. I am glad 
 she is going to the Jacobs's ; it'll be a treat to me 
 to spend the evening by myself. What a fine fire 
 I've made up; and my cigar tastes better than 
 usual ! . . . Rebecca gets fatter every day. And 
 she has such a silly laugh. But a good woman! 
 Few women would have done so much as she did 
 I ought to remember that. But, instead, I am 
 always remembering 
 
 Quite clearly I can see the room I lived in, 
 fifteen years ago, with Dora! How cheap it was 
 — wonderful! But with its refinements too; she 
 could make such pretty things. Why did I not 
 marry Dora? My parents would have been hor- 
 rified if I had married a Christian — I cannot 
 think of any other reason. Unless it was because 
 she didn't worry me with entreaties. She never 
 
 364
 
 A REVERIE 365 
 
 spoke of it. . . . She had been so poor and 
 friendless; she may have fancied that it would 
 be ingratitude to ask for more than I had done? 
 And the business was my father's in his lifetime; 
 I could not afford to quarrel with him. She 
 must have known that? She must have known I 
 could not afford to quarrel with him, even if I 
 had been enxious to marry her? 
 
 Fervently, though it is all past and the shrub 
 that was planted on her grave has grown big be- 
 yond the raihngs, I hope she did not gi'ieve! I 
 have wondered many times — since. She was so 
 gentle and so pure, that perhaps she often suf- 
 fered, while she smiled and kissed me ? . . . And 
 she died and was buried. And the child — the 
 baby Lucy — was given to strangers to be nursed. 
 How long ago it seems — in another life. But I 
 wish that Lucy might have called me "Papal" 
 . . . My cigar is out. 
 
 Rebecca: she was slimmer when her family 
 made up the match between us. Yes, and good- 
 looking. And my sorrow for Dora had faded — 
 two or three years had passed. I was my own 
 master then, and business was good. ... I was 
 happy with Rebecca. I gave her lots of diamonds, 
 and the other women envied her ; and at home we 
 got on very well. If we had had children of our 
 own — I wonder!
 
 S66 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 Lucy was four when Rebecca took her. She 
 asked no questions; to this day she has never 
 asked me anything. It shows a big heart. She 
 is hke a mother to Lucy. Shall I ever forget 
 how grateful I was I The tears came to my eyes 
 when she said "y^s." She should be worshipped 
 for such a generosity. But Lucy reminds me so 
 of Dora! 
 
 Not at first — ah, no; just a little thing not able 
 to talk plainly! It is recently that I see the re- 
 semblance. She is fourteen now, and with every 
 move she brings back Dora before my eyes. She 
 has the same features, the same trick of smihng 
 sometimes with the mouth a little to one side; 
 she grows more and more like Dora. I look at 
 her across the table, when she and my wife and I 
 sit at meals together, and my throat gets tight. 
 The past is suddenly alive to me, and I want to 
 spring up and throw my arms round her neck. 
 But Rebecca might guess the truth, and it would 
 pain her to the heart if she suspected. Yet it is 
 true — and I can't help it — that in the child who 
 reminds me of the dead so vividly my wife has a 
 rival here in our home. It is the child that she 
 consented to adopt who reminds me innocently 
 that my wife is fat and silly; it is Lucy, who, as 
 I watch her at her lessons, recalls to me the 
 thoughtful face of the girl I used to love. And
 
 A RE\^RIE 367 
 
 I regret ! Ah, God forgive me, I regret with all 
 my soul, and would be young once more, with 
 Dora by my side; I would see her by my side 
 to-day! . . . How hot it is! the window should 
 be open such a night. . . . Rebecca has come 
 downstairs. She wears her black satin, and pow- 
 ders her nose again before the mirror. She per- 
 suades me to accompany her; I shall be "dull 
 alone"? 
 
 "My head aches. Otherwise By-by, enjoy 
 
 yourself, my dearest!"
 
 THE RECONCILIATION 
 
 I HAYE often said that I could not be your 
 wife, but I would never tell you why. To-night, 
 suddenly, I want to tell you why, I want to write 
 to you, I wonder if you will understand. 
 
 You have heard how my marriage ended. For 
 many months after I divorced him I could con- 
 centrate my thoughts on nothing but my wrongs. 
 I had no child, no interests ; the hurricane of pain 
 and jealousy swept me day and night. Then re- 
 sentment grew less vehement — faded into lassi- 
 tude. By very slow degrees I concerned myself 
 with other things. 
 
 Later, I began to dwell on scenes of my brief 
 happiness with him, and though remembrance 
 made me cry for the irrecoverable, to remember 
 was sweet. Moments which had been trivial while 
 they lasted assumed in retrospect an air of ex- 
 quisite companionship. It was my weakness to 
 recall some commonplace incident and indulge 
 myself by reanimating its minutest details; the 
 hours that I lived most vividly were the hours that 
 I lived in looking back. 
 
 Even when I found pleasure in society again, 
 
 368
 
 THE RECONCILIATION 369 
 
 recollection remained a secret joy. I could 
 forget by this time and amuse myself, had my 
 vanities and vexations, was socially hke any other 
 woman, entertained in ordinary ways, but clan- 
 destinely I still revisited the past. So thirteen 
 years went by — and, unsuspected by my dearest ' 
 friends, I communed mentally with a young hus- 
 band, who, in these reveries, had grown no older. 
 
 I tried to bear in mind that he was older — much 
 older than I — but I could think of him only as I 
 had seen him last. I repeated, marvelling, that 
 he must be over forty now, but in my memories I 
 laughed and talked with the personality that I 
 had knoMTi. Although I told myself that I might 
 pass him unrecognised, the face that I smiled to 
 in my visions was the face of the young man that 
 he used to be. 
 
 I believe you have sometimes wondered who 
 your rival was. He was the man that my di- 
 vorced husband once had been. 
 
 Last September I was at Pourville. One morn- 
 ing in the hotel, glancing at an English paper, I 
 read that he had just arrived in Paris. I meant 
 to leave for Paris, myself, towards the end of 
 the week, and I sat thinking how very soon he and 
 I would be passing through the same streets. 
 Doubtless we had drifted close to each other
 
 370 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 many times before, but I had not known it, and 
 somehow — Well, the impulse was very strong, 
 I wrote to him ! 
 
 "I do not know," I wrote, "whether it will 
 please or distress you to hear from me. If my 
 letter is unwelcome, burn and forget it. Speak- 
 ing for mj^self , all ill-feeling died long ago. Time 
 has even taught me to think of our first year to- 
 gether and obliterate the rest. Our marriage was 
 a blunder, but — so much am I changed from the 
 girl who was your wife — that seems to me, to-day, 
 no reason why we should never meet again as 
 friends. I shall be at Meurice's on Saturday. If 
 a reconciliation would not be odious to you, if 
 there is no one to resent it, will you come to see 
 me?" 
 
 When the letter was posted, I said that I had 
 committed an imbecility, but I am not sure that 
 I believed myself. At any rate, I rejoiced half 
 an hour afterwards. By-and-by, of course, I 
 was sorry again. And so on. Then, on the mor- 
 row, something happened — I found his new vol- 
 ume of poems on a chair in the courtyard. Have 
 you ever read any of his poems ? But I suppose 
 poetry is not in your line, you great, strong, prac- 
 tical builder of big bridges? On the fly-leaf he 
 had scribbled, "To Janet Herbertson, from her 
 sincere friend, Gilbert Owen." I had picked up
 
 THE RECONCILIATION 371 
 
 the book eager to read some of it, but I fell to 
 dreaming over the fly-leaf, wondering who Janet 
 Herbertson was. 
 
 While I wondered, she returned to her seat. 
 
 "Have I taken j^our book?" [ 
 
 "Oh, thank you!" 
 
 She was a girl to whom I had already spoken 
 once or twice; I had not known her name, and 
 I don't suppose that she knew mine. I call her a 
 "girl" because she was unmarried, but she could 
 not have been more than four or five years young- 
 er than myself — a girl with a fine figure and 
 abundant health, but, to my mind at least, no 
 features worth mentioning. Her eyes were shal- 
 low, and her hair came near to being sandy. JNIost 
 of her remarks were prefaced by "Of course," 
 and she expressed herself in very incisive tones. 
 I had noticed her one day with an easel among the 
 gorse at Varangeville Plage, and I set her down 
 as an amateur, with means. 
 
 "You didn't go to the Links, then?" I said. 
 
 "Not this afternoon, I was too much interested 
 in this. Have you read any of it?" 
 
 "No, I only just saw it. It's a new one of his, 
 isn't it?" 
 
 "It isn't out yet at all; this is what's called an 
 'advance copy'; Mr. Owen sent it to me yester- 
 day."
 
 372 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 "I couldn't help seeing by the inscription that 
 you knew him. How very nice to receive such 
 compliments from poets!" 
 
 "Of course you admire his work?" 
 
 "I admire some of it very much." 
 
 "Some of it?" She regarded me with an of- 
 fensive smile. 
 
 "Of course, the best in any art is always un- 
 intelligible to the Public." I was certain she was 
 an amateur now, the arrogance was unmistakable. 
 
 "I suppose so." 
 
 "Emerson — Have you read Emerson?" 
 
 "Whom's it by?" I asked \dciously. I saw her 
 shudder. 
 
 "Emerson was one of the world's teachers. 
 A propos of the impressions to be derived from 
 Nature, he said that a tourist could never take 
 away from anj^ place more than she brought to 
 it. Of course it's the same with a reader ; if she 
 hasn't the receptivity, she can't receive." 
 
 This person educating me! But I wanted to 
 hear about him ; I submitted. 
 
 "I think I follow you," I murmured. V 
 
 She unbent. "If you like I'll lend it to you 
 presently?" 
 
 "I should be dehghted, if you can spare it?" 
 
 "Yes, I shan't read after dinner. In the eve- 
 ning you always play that idiotic game, though.
 
 THE RECONCILIATION 373 
 
 don't you? Well, you can have it in the morn- 
 ing." 
 
 "If you're sure I shouldn't be robbing you?" 
 
 "Quite. Besides, I've read most of it already, 
 in manuscript." 
 
 "Really? It must be very fascinating to know 
 a poet so well as that!" 
 
 "Oh, I know Gilbert Owen very well! If 
 you're staying next week, you'll see him here;'* 
 she tittered self-consciously: "I've told him that 
 the rest would do him good." 
 
 "Here?" 
 
 "Yes, but not till Wednesday; I didn't want 
 him till I had finished my picture. Of course, I 
 shan't have much time for my work after he 
 comes." 
 
 "I shall be gone by then," I said. "What a 
 pity ! I suppose there's no chance of his coming 
 before?" 
 
 "Oh, no, he'U come on the day I fixed.'* 
 
 "Wednesday?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "To oblige me, you might let him come a little 
 sooner," I laughed. 
 
 "I'm afraid I can't do that. You had better 
 stay." 
 
 "I wish it were possible. You must be im- 
 mensely proud of your influence?"
 
 S74i THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 "Oh, I don't know. I find myself quite for- 
 getting he's famous, and thinking of him simply 
 as a dear friend." 
 
 In a pause I glanced at her left hand. There 
 was no ring on it, but I knew that she foresaw 
 one there. She turned a page of his book, and 
 for a minute or two we didn't speak again. Across 
 the begonias the musicians in their red coats were 
 fiddling drowsily, and, inside, the croupier called 
 "TsTumero deux!" 
 
 "What's he like?" 
 
 "Eh? Oh, it's so difficult to say what anyone 
 is like. Do you mean his appearance, or his dis- 
 position?" 
 
 "I think I meant his disposition. Amusing?'* 
 
 "Amusing? No, I should scarcely describe 
 him as 'amusing.' Of course he can be very bril- 
 liant when he meets a foeman worthy of his steel, 
 but his nature is a wistful one. He has suffered 
 deeply, and it has left its mark." 
 
 "I think I remember reading something," I 
 said. "Wasn't there a case of some sort?" 
 
 "He made a very unhappy marriage years 
 ago," she said sharply; "his wife was a vapid girl 
 who didn't understand him. He was very much 
 to be pitied." 
 
 I nodded. I could have struck her across her 
 conceited face.
 
 THE RECONCILIATION 375 
 
 "It must have been hideous," she added, "for 
 a man of his intellect to be married to a fool." 
 
 The begonias were making my eyes ache. 
 "Awful," I muttered. I wondered what in the 
 world he could find to admire in her. "Well, you 
 shall be left in peace. I've a sudden fancy for 
 Cinq. It's my lucky number." 
 
 I didn't play. I sat watching the horses swirl, 
 and hating her — hating my idiocy in having writ- 
 ten to him. I was jealous. Is it heartless of me 
 to say that to you, dear man? I must be frank. 
 I was jealous of her, and when I had the honesty 
 to own it at last, I was glad that the letter had 
 gone. I asked myself if she had more attractions 
 than I ; I asked myself — it was abominable, you'll 
 despise me ! — if I couldn't teach bun to humiliate 
 her. 
 
 There was no note for me at Meurice's when I 
 arrived on Friday, but I had an instinct that he 
 would come next day. I spent the whole of Sat- 
 urday morning before the mirror, I wonder my 
 maid didn't give me notice ; I had my hair dressed 
 in a new way, and snapped at her till she cried 
 before I was satisfied with it. Afterwards I de- 
 cided that it didn't suit me, and my hair was done 
 as usual, after all. The same with my things, I 
 felt myself a sight in everything — my frock had 
 to be changed three times.
 
 376 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 It was four o'clock wnen the waiter came up 
 and frightened me. ^ly knees were trembling, 
 and the doorway was a blur. 
 
 "Gilbert!" 
 
 "Nan!" 
 
 *'I'm glad you've come," I got out, in a horrid 
 dry whisper. We shook hands. He was speak- 
 ing, but I had turned deaf; I heard a confused 
 sound and strained to distinguish what he said. 
 His face grew clear to me before his words. I 
 saw blankly that he was like someone with a re- 
 semblance to the husband I had remembered. 
 "I'm glad you've come," I repeated. It encour- 
 aged me to find that my voice was louder. I 
 didn't feel that he was Gilbert. He was some- 
 one queerly familiar, but I didn't feel that he was 
 Gilbert. 
 
 "It was very, good and generous of you." His 
 voice seemed different, too. "You haven't 
 changed so much." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 "Really! How are you?" 
 
 "All right. Won't you sit down?" 
 
 He twitched his trousers to save their bagging 
 at the knees. It may have been mechanical, but 
 it hurt me that he could do it then. 
 
 "You've been at Pourville?" 
 
 "Yes. Only for a little while."
 
 THE RECONCILIATION 377 
 
 "I've never stayed there. It's very quiet, isn't 
 it?" 
 
 "Oh, a mite of a place, just the hotel and the 
 sea. There are beautiful walks, though." 
 
 "You used to be fond of walking." 
 
 "I am still." 
 
 "You're looking wonderfully well." 
 
 "You look very w^ell, too." 
 
 "Do you think so?" he asked. "Fact? Not so 
 much older as you expected?" 
 
 "N— no," I said. 
 
 "]My hair's going, eh? begins a little further 
 back than it used to, doesn't it?" 
 
 "A little more intellectual brow, perhaps ! You 
 should try a specialist." 
 
 "I've tried a dozen. They're no use. The 
 first time you go, the man tells you that you'll be 
 bald directly if you don't use his lotions. 'Ah, 
 humph! Well, I'll do all that ca7i be done for 
 you.' And you buy bottles at half-a-guinea each, 
 and find they make no difference. Then, when 
 you go again to say there isn't any improvement, 
 he exclaims, 'My! I didn't hope to do so much in 
 the time. This is splendid. Look at all that new 
 hair coming up!' Of course you like to believe 
 him, and you go on buying his rubbish for twelve 
 months. A hair specialist lives by his knowledge 
 of human nature, not his knowledge of the hair."
 
 378 THE :\IAX WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 I knew that he was talking for effect and I 
 laughed, to gratifj^ him. He glanced round the 
 room. 
 
 "You're very comfortable here." 
 
 "Yes; this is where I generally stay." 
 
 "Are you often in Paris?" 
 
 "Not very often; I'm in London a good deal." 
 
 "Z never go to London, excepting to see a pub- 
 hsher; the atmosphere is fatal. In London I'm 
 conmionplace. Positively. The murk gets on 
 mj" genius. Give me a blue sky and God's sun- 
 shine! All artistic natures are very susceptible 
 to external influences. You know that?" 
 
 "I remember you used to say so.'* 
 
 "It's just the same with me now; I haven't 
 altered, I feel just as I felt when I was a boy. 
 I'm young — just as young in myself. That's 
 what keeps my work so fresh, that's what people 
 rave about. Other men's stuff ages ; mine doesn't 
 — everybody says so — the spirit of it's as youth- 
 ful as when I was twent}^ Temperament — tem- 
 perament!" 
 
 I sickened at the word ; formerly that had been 
 his apology; to-day, I saw it was his boast. Pres- 
 ently I inquired about his favourite sister, if she 
 was weU. "I don't know, I don't often see her 
 now," he said indifferently. I spoke of a chum 
 he had lost, a man at whose death I had pictured
 
 THE RECONCILIATION 379 
 
 him grief-stricken. "It must have been an aw- 
 ful blow to you ?" I asked. "Oh, he had got rath- 
 er tedious," he answered; "Charhe was a bit of 
 an ass." He proceeded to tell me an anecdote 
 of a woman who had paid him a fulsome compli- 
 ment. While he aimed eagerly at making an 
 impression — while his sole thought was to show 
 me how brilliant and fascinating he remained — 
 he revealed to me that every tendency I had once 
 condemned had developed to a salient feature of 
 his character, that every blemish I had once re- 
 gretted had grown to be a glaring fault. 
 
 I am sure that vanity would have urged him to 
 gain my admiration, even if he had found me 
 faded and a frump ; I am sure that he had come 
 with that desire ; but his eyes told me he found me 
 charming, and his note, by-and-by, I think, was 
 unpremeditated. 
 
 "I wish I had been worthier of you," he said. 
 He said it ver)^ beautifully, but late. So much 
 too late to give me any pleasure ! 
 
 "Don't let us talk about the past," I mur- 
 mured. 
 
 "My coming here to-day will make me regret 
 it more still." 
 
 "I hope not — I didn't mean to give you pain. 
 Perhaps it was foolish of me to write." 
 
 "Ah, you know I am glad you wrote. Only —
 
 380 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 It won't be the last time I see you? Don't say 
 that." His gaze dwelt on me sentimentally. "I 
 wish it were the first! If I had just been pre- 
 sented to you, we might have become great 
 friends, Nan. Who knows?" 
 
 "I trust we are friends." 
 
 He sighed. "It's noble of you to say so, but 
 the 'friendship' you can give me now is only a 
 gentler name for 'pardon.' I might have looked 
 forward to something sweeter if we had just met, 
 I might have won your esteem, your confidence 
 — perhaps even your love. I wonder if you know 
 what it has meant to me this afternoon, to be 
 here like this — with a wall of formality between 
 me and the woman who used to be my wife? The 
 torture, the shame of it ! My heart is full of emo- 
 tion, but I may only speak to you of trivial sub- 
 jects; I want to pour out my remorse at your 
 feet and feel your arms about me in forgiveness, 
 but I may only touch your hand, like a stranger. 
 When we parted, I was a boy, who ruined his 
 own happiness ; to-day I am a man, and I realise 
 what I've lost." 
 
 "You make me miserable." 
 
 "Every day I have thought of you. My life 
 — empty! What is anything without you?" 
 
 "You mustn't talk to me like this." 
 
 "I can't help it. Nan, I'm so wretched!"
 
 THE RECONCILIATION 381 
 
 "It's my fault for making j^ou come here." 
 
 "No, no. But let me see you again. Tell me 
 I may come to-morrow." 
 I can t. 
 
 "It's Sunday — ^let us lunch at Versailles, or 
 Saint- Germain, or somewhere — let us go into the 
 country. I know a perfectly lovely spot we can 
 motor to in an hour, and the hotel is really quite 
 decent. Say you will!" 
 
 "I'm expecting people to-morrow." 
 
 "Well, Monday? Tuesday? You'll be free 
 on Tuedsay?" 
 
 I shook my head. 
 
 "Then Wednesday ? I w^as going to the sea on 
 Wednesday, but I'll stay. Promise to spare me 
 Wednesday." 
 
 How easy it had been ! I saw the sandy-haired 
 girl's mortification, saw her fuming, week by 
 week, w^hile he dangled at my side. JNly petty 
 plan had triumphed — but it brought no joy. 
 
 "I am leaving Paris," I said. And when he 
 went, I think he was conscious that, after all, his 
 visit had been a failure. 
 
 But he was speedily at ease again, I know, tor 
 those who have no deep affections avoid much of 
 life's unhappiness. For the selfish is the peace. 
 The suffering was for the woman who had felt — ■ 
 for me, to whom the reconciliation had proved
 
 882 THE IMAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 more painful than the estrangement — for me, 
 whom reahty had robbed of a dream I Always I 
 had seen him as he had been — now I could see 
 only the man he had become. Our meeting had 
 killed Remembrance ; I could spend hours in the 
 past no longer. I tried, I tried for months, but 
 the spell was gone. The husband of my youth 
 would come to my mind no more — I met only a 
 middle-aged poseur, from whom I turned and 
 fled. 
 
 Best of men, how I seem to you I do not know, 
 but I have owned the truth. There is nothing 
 more for me to write. Excepting — well, all day 
 long I have wished that you were with me, and 
 I am feeling very much alone,
 
 THE CALL FROM THE PAST 
 
 Once there was a prosperous solicitor, and he 
 had two sons. The elder he took into his office; 
 the younger he sent to the Bar. The younger 
 boy's name was Robert, and he was generally 
 called "Bob." The elder boy's name was Ed- 
 ward, and no one ever called him "Ted." 
 
 Edward went to the office with satisfaction. He 
 was a shrewd youth who made useful friends, and 
 didn't allow pleasure to stand in the way of 
 profit. Before he had been in the business two 
 years he bullied the head clerk, and it was pre- 
 dicted that he would "go further than his father.'* 
 Bob entered his profession negligently. He was 
 a genial fellow who liked bohemian clubs, and 
 wrote farces that were never produced. Before 
 he had been at the Bar two years he succumbed 
 to an unconquerable passion and went on the 
 stage. 
 
 The stage had not then become the smartest 
 vocation in England. Viscounts occasionally 
 married dancing-girls, but socially that was as 
 high as the theatre had climbed. It may be diffi- 
 cult for Enghsh people of to-day to credit it, but 
 
 883
 
 S84) THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 though old Mr. Blackstone was simply a solicitor, 
 he felt humiliated when his son "took to play- 
 acting." What will be understood more easily, is 
 that he was wrathful in thinking of the money 
 he had wasted to make a barrister of a crank. 
 He told the crank that he washed his hands of 
 him, and as a matter of fact talked rather like 
 the irate parents in the comedies in which Bob 
 Was going to perform. 
 
 Nevertheless his growl was worse than his bite 
 ' — in which he resembled the comedy parents 
 again. Ascertaining that Bob's salary was to be 
 fifteen shillings a week, and that the histrionic 
 career was precarious, he undertook to make an 
 annual contribution of forty pounds, payable 
 quarterly, for the term of three years. "At the 
 end of which time," he said, "I think you ought 
 to be able to support yourself, if you have really 
 any aptitude as a buffoon." 
 
 Barring the "buffoon," Bob was of the same 
 opinion. Don't laugh at him, he was young. He 
 slammed the door of his chambers rejoicing, and 
 — because his father wished him to change his 
 name — he dropped the "Blackstone" and called 
 himself "Lawless." The old man remarked that 
 "Senseless" would be better still, but Bob thought 
 not. 
 
 Now if this had been a nice, edifying story,
 
 THE CALL FROM THE PAST 385 
 
 with a Moral presented gratis to every purchaser. 
 Bob would have had only two courses open to 
 him. He would either have succeeded brilliantly 
 and moved his father to tears of pride, or he 
 would have found the discomforts unbearable and 
 returned repentant. In reality he didn't succeed 
 at all, and he had never been so happj^ in his life. 
 
 His sole regret was that the tour was short,. 
 for when it finished he was out of an engagement. 
 He remained out of an engagement much longer 
 than he had been in one, and subsisted on the 
 parental allowance. The change from the flesh- 
 pots of Regent's Park was severe, and if any- 
 thing could have cooled his stage fever, it would 
 have been cooled now, but it defied even semi- 
 starvation. By-and-by he obtained another 
 small part, and his temperature was higher still. 
 Confidently he assured himself that by the time 
 the allowance was withdrawn he would be inde- 
 pendent of it. And that was where he erred. 
 
 At the end of the three years he was pacing 
 the Strand. He had had hard luck, and old Mr. 
 Blackstone was hard too. He stuck to his gims; 
 Bob must shift by his own abilities henceforward, 
 or Bob must go back to the Bar. Bob was foot- 
 sore, hungry and penniless; Bob went back to the 
 Bar. 
 
 Of course there was still his pen. His hopes as
 
 S86 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 an actor had been shivered, but to his ambitions 
 as a dramatist he clung. His pen was the spar 
 in the shipwreck. The night was black, but afar 
 the footlights beamed. Buffeted as he was, he 
 might regain them by his pen. 
 
 So he wrote more farces — farces and bur- 
 lesques, and one or two melodramas as well. His 
 father did not know that. Robert Blackstone, 
 the budding barrister, preserved appearances; 
 and Robert Lawless, the panting playwright, 
 preserved his manuscripts — for they all came 
 back. All, that is to say, with the exception of 
 a farcical comedy which he had actually sold for 
 twenty-five pounds but which had never been 
 staged. Some of his work was good, but in Eng- 
 land the chief qualifications for artistic success 
 are commercial ability, and the money to exploit 
 it; Bob lacked both. By degrees he became 
 weary of trying to reach the limelit shore, his 
 struggles grew fainter; by degrees "Robert Law- 
 less" took some interest in Robert Blackstone. He 
 thought of the Bar more, and of the Theatre less. 
 One day when his father told him he had "han- 
 dled the brief uncommonly well," he was elated. 
 He was nine and-twenty now. 
 
 Robert Blackstone had begun to cut "Robert 
 Lawless" out — was travelling faster, proving the 
 better of the pair. And "Lawless," who felt
 
 THE CALL FROM THE PAST 38T 
 
 rather sore about it at first, presently forgave 
 him. Bob began to look less like a Bob and more 
 hke a Robert. People noticed "what a strong 
 resemblance there was between hinl and his 
 brother." As an earnest young barrister he no 
 longer frequented bohemian clubs. It was under- 
 stood that one mustn't go round to Plowden 
 Buildings any more and waste his time. Nobody 
 said to him now, "Come and have a drink, old 
 chap!" Occasionally someone might say, "Will 
 you — er — take a glass of sherry, INIr. Black- 
 stone ?" 
 
 As the years passed, even that was seldom said. 
 He had shaken off the dust of Plowden Build- 
 ings, and had chambers in Garden Court. His 
 humour was becoming heavy. The mothers of 
 marriageable daughters found it convulsing. He 
 was spoken of as a man with a future, and dined 
 at dreary houses. Old Blackstone died, and as 
 Robert was making a handsome income he was 
 mentioned in the will with abimdant generosity. 
 Wherefore he was rich. So was Edward the so- 
 licitor, who had a wife and three children now. 
 Edward was proud of his brother; he wanted him 
 to take silk, and to stand for Beckenhampton 
 later. Robert was thinking of these things him- 
 self. His age was forty-one. And here ends the 
 prologue.
 
 S88 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 So we see that this unedifying story may be 
 said to begin at a point long after all orthodox 
 stories have concluded — it really begins twelve 
 years after the prodigal reformed. Reformation, 
 we know, is always final — in stories. When the 
 prodigal has once returned to the odour of sanc- 
 tity we are quite sure that he will never desire 
 change of air ; we understand that he will always 
 be just as good and peaceful as we leave him 
 on the last page. Human nature is m^de like 
 that — in stories. 
 
 One May afternoon, as Robert came out of 
 court, a man murmured to another, "He's a dry 
 stick, is Blackstone!" and Robert overheard, and 
 smiled his dry smile. Yes, he supposed that was 
 his social reputation at the Bar. As he joined 
 Edward, and listened to his pleased comments 
 on the Jury's finding, he even admitted to him- 
 self that the reputation might be deserved. Odd ! 
 how very different from a "dry stick" he had been 
 once. 
 
 Edward was animated — for Edward. He kept 
 nodding his grey head, and pinched his nose re- 
 peatedly between his forefinger and thumb, a 
 habit that he had in conversation. They stood 
 talking in the street for about ten minutes. It 
 occurred to Robert with a touch of faint surprise 
 that he had long ceased to shirk his brother's
 
 THE CALL FROM THE PAST 389 
 
 company; yet there was no doubt that Edward 
 was quite as dull a dog as he had ever been. As 
 they talked there, outside the Law Courts, Rob- 
 ert compassionated himself a little for not being 
 bored by Edward. 
 
 He had been cheerful as he unrobed, but the re- 
 mark he had caught lurked in his ears, and when 
 he entered his chambers he found himself repeat- 
 ing it. "For the defendant," a pleasant phrase 
 to-day, was momentarily forgotten; "a dry stick" 
 sounded in his mind instead. He, *'Bob," had 
 actually become a "dry stick"! 
 
 And he was only forty-one. He lit a cigarettCi 
 and mused. Beyond the open window the flowers 
 of the garden were bright in sunshine, and the 
 fountain tinkled dreamily. There was a nurse- 
 maid with a child among the flowers; he won- 
 dered, for a moment, whether he would have done 
 well to marry. 
 
 Marvellous, in looking back, how suddenlj'- suc- 
 cess had come! — marvellous to remember how 
 hard he had had to flog his brain at the beginning 
 to earn a legal guinea ; if one managed to turn the 
 second corner at the Bar at all, one sped on with 
 a rush. But how unlikely it had looked that he 
 would ever turn that corner! 
 
 How unlikely it had looked in the days when 
 he belonged to the Amity Club and fellows used
 
 S90 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 to quote his jokes he flashed over a tankard and 
 a steak at three in the morning! If his boyish 
 hopes had been justified, if he had had talent as 
 an actor, perhaps hfe would have tasted better 
 to him, after all? "Robert Blackstone, K.C." 
 He would soon be that. "Robert Blackstone, 
 K.C., M.P."? He might expect it. "Sir Rob- 
 ert Blackstone, SoHcitor-General" ? It was on 
 the cards. Why wouldn't his heart swell at the 
 prospect, why didn't he catch his breath, what 
 the deuce had become of all his emotions? 
 
 Oh! he was getting sentimental, listening to 
 the fountain. Shut the window, ring the bell, 
 see what briefs had come in ! 
 
 "And a letter, sir." 
 
 "All right," said Robert, "put it down." 
 
 The eagerness with which he used once to seize 
 his briefs — the swift glance to learn the fee, the 
 impatience to gather the contents! Other in- 
 comes, other manners — he pulled the tape off 
 leisurely to-day. " 'A dry stick' !" he reiterated. 
 Oh, one had to pay for success, there was no 
 doubt. 
 
 His gaze wandered to the letter, and rested 
 on it, startled; a little quiver ran through him. 
 For several seconds a sensation that was half 
 pleasure, half pain, held him quite still. The 
 letter had been redirected from Plowden Build-
 
 THE CALL FROM THE PAST 391 
 
 ings. It was addressed to "Robert Lawless, 
 Esq.," — c|o himself! 
 
 *'T. R., Hetton-Le-Hole, 
 
 Durham, May 1st. 
 
 "Dear Sir, — I have come across the scrip of 
 your farcical comedy entitled No Flies on Flossie^ 
 all rights of which I acquired some years ago. 
 It is a bit antique in parts now, and I think you 
 might like to bring it up to date. I am putting 
 it on at O.H. Ashton-under-Lyne to see how it 
 shapes. We rehearse at P.O.W. Manchester. 
 The first Call is for twelve o'clock, Monday, 18th 
 inst. — Yours faithfully, 
 
 "Cavendish Pink." 
 
 When the colour had crept back to his face, 
 Robert laughed — the perfunctory laugh that he 
 gave to a Judge's joke. He shrugged his shoul- 
 ders. He put the letter down, and laughed again 
 — he was acting to himself unconsciously. After 
 a minute or two he picked it up and re-read it. 
 How had Cavendish Pink come by the play? 
 "Acquired" it? Not from the author. But the 
 adventures of the manuscript were unimportant. 
 Pink ? Pink had been a rather popular comedian. 
 On the see-saw of life ]Mr. Pink had gone down 
 while ]Mr. Blackstone went up. 
 
 For the third time he read the letter. He
 
 S92 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 knew that "T.R." stood for "Theatre Royal," 
 but the other abbreviations had mystified him. 
 It recurred to him with emotion that "O.H." 
 meant "Opera House," and that "P.O.W." 
 meant "Prince of Wales's." That he could have 
 forgotten these things even for a moment! He 
 drummed his fingers on the briefs, and saw his 
 Youth. 
 
 Of course he could have nothing to do with the 
 matter. "No Flies on Flossie — the work, we un- 
 derstand, of Mr. Robert Blackstone, the well- 
 known barrister," etc. He shuddered in imagin- 
 ing such a paragraph. He said that it was lucky 
 "Robert Lawless" was forgotten; certainly 
 "Robert Lawless" would reveal nothing to any- 
 one who saw the piece at Ashton-under-Lyne, and 
 doubtless its "run" would begin and end there. 
 If he were silent, nobody would suspect his con- 
 nection with it. But — well, if this had happened 
 a few years earlier, he would have gone down to 
 the place, just for a day, to see the performance. 
 He said he would have felt curious about it — a 
 few years ago! 
 
 Three or four hours had passed before he con- 
 fessed to himself that he was curious now. He 
 was in his library after dinner; and though he 
 had no intention of humouring his curiosity, he 
 humoured his mind. It dwelt on scenes in the
 
 THE CALL FROM THE PAST 393 
 
 farce that had appeared to him brilliant when 
 he wrote them. Would they appear brilliant to- 
 day? He remembered the evening when he 
 scribbled "Curtain," and Dick turned up and 
 heard the last act read. "Jove! I didn't think 
 you had it in you," Dick had said; he was sitting 
 on the window-sill — how it all came back! — how 
 time flew! The score of hopes and disappoint- 
 ments the work had brought; with what passion 
 he had despaired at that age! Could he despair 
 so passionately at this? And then the excite- 
 ment when the thing was taken — what a whirl- 
 wind of exultance! That night that he got the 
 news. He had dragged Dick out for oysters just 
 before Scott's closed, and afterwards they had 
 sat up talking till daylight. The piece was to be 
 produced a few weeks hence, and Dick had stip- 
 ulated for tico stalls on the first night, to take 
 his girl. . . . Thirteen years ago! And Dick 
 was dead. 
 
 On the morrow Robert decided that he might, 
 after all, run down to Ashton-under-Lyne. He 
 said he would not enter the stage-door, no one 
 should surmise that the author was present; he 
 would simply take a seat in the dress circle like 
 anybody else. Why not? To associate himself 
 with No Flics on Flossie was impossible, but to 
 resist the desire to peep at it would be motiveless.
 
 394 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 No doubt when he was in the theatre he'd be 
 hotly ashamed of having perpetrated such trash. 
 Still 
 
 He made no reply to Cavendish Pink. He was 
 not ppepared to revert to comic dialogue, even 
 under a pseudonj^m, nor did he see his way to 
 correspond on the subject. Probably it would be 
 inferred that the letter had gone astray, or that 
 Mr. Lawless had died. Well, he was dead. Yet 
 Robert Blackstone owned to himself that he re- 
 gretted being unable to attend Bob Lawless's re- 
 hearsals. He did not own it all at once, he re- 
 gretted it for some time before he owned it. Then 
 he said again that if this had haiipened a few 
 years earher, he might have — Eh? Just for 
 a day or two? Yes, he would have given him- 
 self the fun then! It wouldn't have mattered so 
 much a few years earlier. 
 
 How ardently, in the period when he was a 
 small-part actor, he had looked forward to strid- 
 ing about a stage as the author and telling the 
 company what to do! He had never rehearsed in 
 a West End theatre, or he would have known 
 that authors are rather small fry after the plays 
 are written. It had been his dream. The author! 
 And of course he would be privileged to smoke — 
 he had imagined himself with a cigar between his 
 lips, and his hands in the pockets of a fur over-
 
 THE CALL FROM THE PAST 395 
 
 coat. In his dream it was generally winter, be- 
 cause he wanted to wear a fur overcoat. Nice 
 girls waylaid him in the wings, and said, "Do 
 write in a line for me to speak, Mr. Lawless, 
 pleaseT And he did. The courtly consideration 
 that he had always shown — in his dream — to the 
 humblest members of the cast! The glowing 
 terms in which everyone had spoken of him — in 
 his dream ! ... It would have been agreeable to 
 go to IManchester for the rehearsals. 
 
 About a week later he said that of course he 
 wouldn't be so stupid, but that as a matter of fact 
 he could go if he chose; he could go as "Mr. Law- 
 less" ! It was in the highest degree unlikely that 
 anyone in a third-rate provincial company would 
 know his face. He wouldn't do it, because he 
 had long ago left such follies behind, but there 
 was really nothing else to prevent him. 
 
 "The first Call is for twelve o'clock, Monday, 
 18th instant." Constantly the man thought of 
 it, sometimes he fingered the letter again; daily, 
 in the drawer of his desk, under the documents, 
 under the briefs, it tempted him — the Call from 
 the past. 
 
 Oh, out of the question! 
 
 He supposed it would be a folly? 
 
 After all, should he go? 
 
 If the Easter Term did not end on the IGth of
 
 396 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 May, there would have been no story ; but it does. 
 
 He felt strange to himself when he took his 
 ticket on Sunday. He felt excited, nervous, 
 guilty. On the platform he avoided a man whom 
 he knew. He realised the sensations of a fugitive 
 from justice, and threw an apprehensive glance 
 about the restaurant car. What should he say 
 if he were asked where he was going? He was 
 sorry the rehearsals were to be held in a big city 
 like Manchester; what more likely than that an 
 acquaintance would run against him in the street? 
 As to the hotel, it would brim with danger: at 
 any moment someone might exclaim, "How d'ye 
 do? — what has brought you here?" But, to be 
 sure, he merely meant to remain in an hotel for 
 the night — on the morrow he would go into lodg- 
 ings. They would be extremely uncomfortable, 
 but at all events they would be private, and it 
 was only for a week, after all. A week would 
 soon pass. He found himself wishing that it had 
 passed already. 
 
 Rain was falling when he arrived at Man- 
 chester. He spent a melancholy evening in the 
 "smoke-room." Presently he saw a theatrical pa- 
 per, and turning it over, observed advertisements 
 of "professional apatrments"; several of the ad- 
 vertised houses were in Manchester. The idea 
 of installing himself in theatrical lodgings again
 
 THE CALL FROM THE PAST 397 
 
 carried a little tremor with it ; but it was not un- 
 pleasant. These addresses to his hand, moreover, 
 would spare him trouble. 
 
 Rain was falling when he shaved. ISTo matter 
 — it would be well to make his arrangements be- 
 fore he went to the rehearsal! He breakfasted 
 briskly, opposite a commercial traveller who per- 
 formed extraordinary feats with a knife and fork. 
 At ten o'clock he had his bag put on to a cab. 
 "All Saints," he said, for in JNIanchester all theat- 
 rical landladies and All Saints are neighbours. 
 
 The side streets of All Saints were not prepos- 
 sessing. As he rang the first bell, he glanced 
 about him wonderingly. Had he really been 
 happy in places like this when he was young? 
 He was relieved when the slatternly householder 
 answered that she had only a "combined room." 
 He interviewed several householders without suc- 
 cess. 
 
 Gradually the manner in which he made his 
 applications lost something of its legal stiffness ; 
 he laboured for a touch of the old-time freedom 
 which he knew was demanded by the situation. 
 He rang another bell, and a young woman in 
 curling-pins came to the door. 
 
 "What rooms have you got this week?" asked 
 Robert, uneasily familiar. 
 
 "What do you want?" said the woman.
 
 S98 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 "I want a sitting-room and bedroom," he said. 
 And she was able to accommodate him. 
 
 Against the piano was a pile of comic songs; 
 on the mantelpiece there were likenesses of per- 
 formers in tights. The rooms were cosily fur- 
 nished, and the rent was ten shillings a week in- 
 clusive of gas and fires ; the ^Manchester weather 
 was still chilly. 
 
 "I'll take them," said Robert. 
 
 When he had unpacked his bag, he smoked a 
 cigar in the parlour, and smiled. "One always 
 returns to one's first love," he mused ; and really 
 the first love looked attractive, though he viewed 
 the signboard of a "mechanical chimney-sweep" 
 through the window. 
 
 Presently he asked his landlady for her card, 
 
 "I'll have to give you my professional card," 
 she said, "but it has got the address on it; I'm in 
 the profession myself." 
 
 He read, "Mdlle. Superba: Terpslchorean 
 Gymnast." 
 
 "That's me," she said, pointing, "that portrait 
 there. I only let rooms as a 'obby — I don't let 
 regular all the year round. Think it's good?" 
 
 "It doesn't flatter you," said Robert. But she 
 was captivating in her gymnast's costume; he 
 would never have supposed the photograph was
 
 THE CALL FROM THE PAST 399 
 
 meant for her. "I'm fortmiate to find you 'let- 
 ting' this week.'* 
 
 "Well, it's like this, it gives me something to 
 do when I'm at home. That's what my husband 
 says; he says, 'It gives you something to do.' 
 And I don't take ladies, they're a bit too much — 
 'Can we 'ave some 'ot water, Ma?' all hours of 
 the day; 'Can I come and 'eat my curling-tongs 
 in the kitchen fire, JNIa?' Ladies are a handful, 
 and, as I saj% I only let as a 'obby. I'm going 
 on tour again in August. Perhaps you've seen 
 me in the Halls?" 
 
 "I've often applauded you in the Halls," he 
 said, courteously untruthful; "I was puzzled why 
 your face was so familiar to me." He was con- 
 scious that he hadn't recovered the note yet, he 
 knew that he was being much too formal. Could 
 he pluck up the spirit to call a landlady "Ma" 
 again himself? 
 
 There was an unaccustomed exhilaration in his 
 veins as he drove to the Prince of Wales's; he 
 did not define the feehng, but what he felt was 
 "younger." When the cab jerked to a stoppage, 
 his pulses beat like a lover's. He leapt out, and 
 saw "Stage Entrance" painted on a dirty door. 
 Again he pulled a stage-door open. "What 
 name?" he was asked; "Mr. Lawless," he an- 
 swered. And all at once he did not know if he
 
 400 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 was happy or ashamed; but he knew that he 
 trembled. 
 
 The theatre looked dark for the first minute. 
 He received a dim impression of ill-dressed peo- 
 ple, drew a breathful of mouldy atmosphere that 
 swept him back into the past. A vociferous man 
 shook hands with him, and called him "my boy." 
 *'So you've turned up, my boy ! That's all right. 
 Afraid you hadn't had my note." 
 
 "How do you do, Mr. Pink," responded 
 Robert. 
 
 They sat down in the stalls swathed in hoUand 
 wrappers, and the mist before him melted. The 
 ill-dressed people acquired features; he realised 
 that the rehearsal had begun, and that the figures 
 on the stage were the butler and the maid-servant 
 reading the opening scene of his farce. 
 
 "It wants freshening up, Lawless," said Mr. 
 Pink; "it's a bit Noah's Arky here and there — 
 old-fashioned. Still I think there's stuff in it. 
 I'd like you to keep your ears open, see where you 
 can stick in some lines. Make it modern, my boy, 
 make it a bit topical; you know what I mean?" 
 
 "Oh — er — of course," said Robert with dismay. 
 "Yes, certainly I must see what I can do." 
 
 He was painfully embarrassed ; he had not felt 
 so nervous since the day he heard himself plead- 
 ing in court for the first time. When the vocif-
 
 THE CALL FROM THE PAST 401 
 
 erous man left him, he thanked Heaven. Vaguely 
 he thought of making his escape, of sending a 
 telegram to say he was recalled to town. 
 
 "Mr. Lawless?" 
 
 A pale, shabby girl had come to him. She had 
 very beautiful grey eyes; he was surprised that 
 he had overlooked her. 
 
 "Yes?" he said. 
 
 *'I'm to play 'Flossie' — I wanted to ask you a 
 question about her. Is she simple in the first act, 
 or only putting it on?" 
 
 He had no longer any views on the subject, but 
 it would never do to say so. 
 
 "Simple," he said. "Oh, decidedly simple in 
 the first act." 
 
 "That's what I thought!" she nodded, "and 
 Mr. Pink wants me to do it the other way — Mr. 
 Pink says she is only putting it on." 
 
 He perceived that he had encouraged her to 
 defy the management. 
 
 "Of course," he added hastily, "when I say 
 'simple,' I mean relatively simple — everything is 
 relative." 
 
 "Oh, y-e-s," she said. But she was evidently 
 at sea. After a moment she went on, "What I 
 really want to know is how she is to speak those 
 lines sitting on the hamper — is she sincere in that 
 speech or isn't she?"
 
 402 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 "That, of course, is the question," murmured 
 Robert. "Yes, precisely. That speech is the — 
 -the " 
 
 "It's the keynote to the part," she said. 
 
 He wished distressfully he could remember 
 what speech she meant. Perhaps, after all, he 
 had better be frank! 
 
 "To be quite honest with you," he said, "I 
 wrote the piece a good many years ago; and 
 since then I " 
 
 "Oh, I see!" she laughed. "How funny! Since 
 then j^ouVe written so many others that you've 
 forgotten what it's about?" 
 
 "Exactly," said Robert; "that is to say, not at 
 all. I haven't written any others, but I have for- 
 gotten what it's about." 
 
 They regarded each other silently for a mo- 
 ment. . . . She seemed a singularly nice girl. 
 
 "I was quite a young man when I wrote it," 
 he said abruptly. 
 
 "And you've done nothing since?" 
 
 "Well — er — not in the dramatic line. You're 
 rehearsing my last attempt." 
 
 "Oh, I do hope it'll be a success!" she said 
 earnestly, "then you'll go on working. It must 
 be rather — rather queer to see us rehearsing a 
 piece you wrote so long ago?" 
 
 "It is," said Robert, "very queer." He paused
 
 THE CALL IHOM THE PAST 40S 
 
 again — he was again abrupt: "Once I knew every 
 line of the three acts by heart." 
 
 She hfted her eyes to him gravely, and didn't 
 speak for a second. He liked her for not speak- 
 ing — he saw that she understood. 
 
 "How it must take you back!" she whispered. 
 
 He sighed — and smiled. "So, you see, Mr. 
 Pink probably knows more about your part to- 
 day than the author does. — Er — you needn't tell 
 all the company what I've said." 
 
 "As if I should!" she exclaimed. "Oh! there's 
 my cue, I must fly!" 
 
 "Miss Wilson!" shouted Pink. "Come on. 
 Miss Wilson, please — take up your cues!" 
 
 "My fault," called Robert, 'Tm to blame." 
 
 She looked back over her shoulder, smiling at 
 him as she ran, and somehow the rehearsal was 
 more interesting to Robert. The nice girl read 
 the lines he had invented thirteen years before — 
 and listening to her, he remembered. 
 
 Rain was falling when the rehearsal finished. 
 She hadn't an umbrella. "Which way do you 
 go?" he asked as the stage-door slammed. 
 
 "All Saints," she replied; "Rumford Street." 
 
 "That's my way, too. I want a cab — I can 
 give you a lift." 
 
 "A cab?" She was openly astonished. "If
 
 404. THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 you must squander money, you can take a penny 
 car. But why not walk?" 
 
 "Is that what you do in the wet?" 
 
 "Well, if I took a cab every time it was wet in 
 Manchester, my salary wouldn't go far, would 
 it?" 
 
 "I have no idea what your salary is." 
 
 "Three pounds," she said frankly. "It isn't 
 much for a leading lady, eh?" 
 
 "It isn't much for a leading lady, but it's a 
 good deal for a young girl. In any other business 
 three pounds a week wants a lot of earning." 
 
 "Oh, I know," she said. "I've got young 
 brothers in the city. They call me 'the million- 
 aire of the family.' '* 
 
 "Do they like your being on tour alone?" 
 
 "Well, you see, it was necessary for me to earn 
 my own living; things weren't very bright at 
 home when I grew up. I don't spend all my 
 salary on the delicacies of the season — I send half 
 to my mother every week. I couldn't be any help 
 to her if I were in a clerkship like the boys. 
 
 "But you're fond of the stage, aren't you? 
 lYou sounded enthusiastic when you floored me 
 with those questions." 
 
 She slu*ugged her shoulders. "At the begin- 
 ning I was in love with it; I've been in the pro-
 
 THE CALL FROM THE PAST 405 
 
 fession eight years now. You're giving me all 
 your unbrella." 
 
 "There's no expense attached to that," said 
 Robert. 
 
 The cars were full, and she was evidently averse 
 from a cab; so they went along Oxford Street 
 afoot, keeping close together. 
 
 "I suppose you'll go and see a show to-night?" 
 she inquired. 
 
 "I hadn't thought of it," he said. "ShaU ymir 
 
 "There's nothing else to do when one isn't 
 playing. It's ghastly sitting in diggings all the 
 evening, isn't it?" 
 
 "It must be dull if you're alone," he assented. 
 It occurred to him that his own evening was going 
 to be very dull indeed. 
 
 "Oh, I'm not alone, I'm with the girl who 
 plays 'Aunt Rachel'; but it's dull anyhow. We 
 thought of asking for seats at the St. James's." 
 
 "I — I think',' said Robert, "that I'll go, too. 
 Perhaps I shall see you there. Or we might all 
 go together, mightn't we ?" 
 
 "Why, yes," she replied, "it would be very nice. 
 Let's!" 
 
 "It would be delightful I" said Robert "Yes, 
 let's 1" 
 
 They had reached her door, and she asked him 
 if he would go in and have some tea. He said he
 
 406 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 would. They found the other girl at home, toast- 
 ing crumpets. Miss Wilson toasted crumpets. 
 Robert toasted crumpets also. They all knelt 
 on the hearthrug and toasted crumpets together. 
 His hostesses cried that they were "rising in their 
 profession, having the author to tea!" He 
 laughed. He cracked a joke. He wondered 
 what Edward would say if he could see him. 
 
 At the St. James's the girls obtained two stalls 
 for nothing, and Robert insisted on paying for 
 one, though Miss Wilson reproved him for such 
 waste of money. "We could quite easily have 
 asked for three," she said. "It is silly of you! 
 You make me angry." 
 
 Greatly daring, he proposed supper when the 
 performance was over. The restaurants of Man- 
 chester were far to seek, but he didn't know that ; 
 he even told himself that it mattered nothing if 
 he were recognised; the girls were ladies, a man 
 had a right to take his friends to supper! How- 
 ever, they wouldn't go; that is to say. Miss Wil- 
 son wouldn't go; the other girl looked as if she 
 wanted to. Miss Wilson said he must wait to see 
 if his piece was a success. "If it makes a hit, 
 well — perhaps!" He understood that she took it 
 for granted he was poor — she wouldn't let him 
 be extravagant: the situation was not without a 
 charm.
 
 THE CALL FROM THE PAST 40T 
 
 They chattered gaily as far as her apartments. 
 "I can't ask you in after the show," she mur- 
 mured. 
 
 "No, I know," he said — "I remember!" As 
 he strolled on, he reflected that the day had been 
 remarkably agreeable. He made for his lodging 
 in high good humour. In Oxford Street he 
 started, he received a shock, almost he staggered 
 — ^he had perceived that he was whistling! 
 
 The terpsichorean gj^mnast gave him eggs 
 boiled to perfection in the morning, and much 
 better coffee than he got at home. As he tapped 
 the second shell, it occurred to Robert that he had 
 not opened a newspaper yesterday. Extraordi- 
 nary! How often he had winced in recollecting 
 that he never looked at a newspaper when he was 
 a provincial actor! And actually he had been as 
 bad again. He bought The Manchester Guard- 
 ian, and other papers after breakfast — and kept 
 glancing at the clock. 
 
 It was rather jolly to sally forth to rehearsal, 
 though when it was time to go, rain was falling. 
 He entered the theatre with zest to-day. Even he 
 resented less stiffly the vociferous man's calling 
 him "my boy." Miss Wilson's pale face smiled 
 at him as at a friend. He conversed with one 
 or two other members of the company, and saw 
 his way to inserting a topical allusion in the
 
 408 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 dialogue. Pink pronounced it "devilish good." 
 Robert the Reviving was gratified that Pink 
 thought his line "devilish good." When he was 
 asked vociferously if he would "come across and 
 have a drink," he didn't say "no." They drank 
 prosperity to the piece in a vulgar bar. And he 
 took back a box of sandwiches, and Peggy Wil- 
 son, and "Aunt Rachel," and he shared them in 
 the stalls. 
 
 Almost the next thing that Robert realised 
 vividly was that it was Friday. Rain was falling. 
 It amazed him how the interval had flown. 
 "Aunt Rachel" had gone over to Bury, where her 
 fiance was playing at the Royal, and Miss Wil- 
 son, left alone, was coming in to tea. Robert 
 had ordered cream with the tea, and simnel cake. 
 He stood at the window eager-eyed; the sign- 
 board of the "mechanical chimney-sweep" did not 
 obtrude itself to him. He remembered how long 
 it was since he last watched for a girl to come 
 to tea. 
 
 But when she turned the comer he remem- 
 bered only that he was to have a gracious after- 
 noon. He wheeled the armchair to the hearth 
 for her, and brought her a footstool. She was 
 less talkative than usual. Somehow the first few 
 minutes were disappointing.
 
 THE CALL FROM THE PAST 409 
 
 "I have to go on Tuesday," he marked pres- 
 ently; "and then it'll be all over." 
 
 "But you're coming to Ashton-under-Lyne for 
 the production?" 
 
 "I don't know; I don't know that I shall be 
 able to. I wish I hadn't to go back — I haven't 
 enjoyed anything so much for years. By the 
 way, I want you to do me a favour — I want you 
 girls to come to supper with me on Monday night. 
 I thought we might go and see a show" — he didn't 
 notice that he was saying "show" again, instead 
 of "theatre" — "and have a little supper here 
 afterwards. I'd suggest a restaurant, but there'd 
 be no time to eat anything before we were turned 
 out." 
 
 "What would your landlady say?" 
 
 "I've sounded her. I said, 'I suppose you 
 wouldn't think there was any harm in my bring- 
 ing two ladies in to supper after the show one 
 evening?' 'Certainly not, Mr. Lawless,' she said. 
 'Would you like it hot?' That's a landlady that 
 is a landlady. Will you?" 
 
 "We'll see about it," said Miss Wilson. 
 
 "You might say 'yes,' " he begged. "Give me 
 a happy memory for the end." 
 
 "But it won't be the end; we shall often see 
 you, shan't we, if the piece runs?"
 
 410 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 "Perhaps it won't run. And even if it does — 
 I'm a busy man." 
 
 "Too busy to think of your pals? What do 
 you do?" 
 
 "Are we pals?" he questioned. "I'm yours; 
 but are you mine? Really? You've known me 
 such a very little while." 
 
 "No longer than you've known me." 
 
 "It's not the same thing, though. You meet 
 lots of men; I don't meet lots of girls. To me 
 this week has been quite out of the common; to 
 you it's only one of the fifty-two." 
 
 "What do you do in London?" she inquired 
 again. "What are you?" 
 
 "A dry stick," said Robert. 
 
 "Well, you aren't a dry stick in Manchester!'* 
 she said. 
 
 It was not a brilliant reply, but she couldn't 
 have made one that would have pleased him 
 more. 
 
 Yet the tea was a failure. She never ate cake, 
 she told him; somehow she didn't care for tea 
 either this afternoon — she sipped about a quarter 
 of a cupful. He had scarcely stirred his own 
 when she was declaring she must go: "You won't 
 think it rude of me if I run away now?" He 
 gave her her muff blankly. A creature of moods, 
 as changeful as an April day ! But when she was
 
 THE CALL FROM THE PAST 411 
 
 sunny, how sunny! The table looked pathetic 
 to him when she had gone. He stood at the win- 
 dow, downcast; the signboard of the chimney- 
 sweep darkened the road. 
 
 JNIademoiselle Superba put the simnel cake 
 on the top of the piano, because there wasn't a 
 sideboard, and it stood there uncovered till it was 
 dusty. Then the night of the supper arrived, and 
 there were a galantine, and prawns in aspic, and 
 a mayonnaise ; and the first thing the creature of 
 moods did when she came in was to pounce on 
 the dusty cake and devour a slice before she took 
 her hat off. 
 
 "Peggy!" exclaimed the other girl reprovingly. 
 
 "I may?" she cried, flashing a glance at Rob- 
 ert. Yes, she knew she might! She knew she 
 might do anything she chose there. "I'm going 
 to have more light!" she said, and lit another 
 burner of the gaselier. 
 
 Mademoiselle Superba — majestic in black silk, 
 with pendent pearls in her ears, and her hair 
 dressed like Truefitt's window — looked in for a 
 moment to ask if all was well. Robert thanked 
 her for doing it so extremely well. Peggy said 
 sweetly, "I hear you're in the profession too?" 
 The woman was pleased at that. So was Robert 
 — it was nice of Veggy. Because there was no 
 sideboard, cutlery and plates were set forth on
 
 412 THE MAN WHO UKDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 the piano; because there were no champagne 
 glasses, they drank the champagne out of tum- 
 blers. 
 
 "Didn't I forbid you to be extravagant?'* cried 
 Peggy. 
 
 He liked "forbid." "Forgive me I" he smiled. 
 
 "This once," she laughed. "But you must be 
 very economical in London." 
 
 "I shall have no parties like it in London, I 
 assure you." 
 
 "Nor I !" said she. 
 
 "Do you live in London?" 
 
 She threw him a nod. "Crouch End." 
 
 "Tell me more," he urged. "And let me give 
 you both some salad." 
 
 "More? Well, once we had a servant. Now 
 we haven't. I do housework when I'm at home 
 — I blacklead the grates. That's why my hands 
 aren't pretty." 
 
 "Don't," he said, pained. Her hands weren't 
 pretty, but he revered them now he knew the 
 reason. 
 
 "Peggy!" said the other girl, dismayed. The 
 other girl was obsessed by "manners" when she 
 was out. 
 
 "I'm frightfully untidy in the morning. In 
 novels the poor heroine always has on 'snowy 
 cuffs and collars' with her rags. Pickles! In
 
 THE CALL FROM THE PAST 413 
 
 real life the poor heroine has to think of the laun- 
 dry bills. Oh, you'd be shocked at me in the 
 morning! After the boys have gone, I turn a 
 room out sometimes — my skirt pinned up, and a 
 duster over my head. Can you see me ? Mother's 
 not very strong — the cooking's business enough 
 for mother. Then I go up to the agents' and 
 try to get something to do. In a very smart cos- 
 tume! with a picture hat — I made it! — and white 
 gloves. Oh, you'd be impressed by Peggy in the 
 afternoon; you wouldn't recognise me dn tlip 
 Strand. You're not seeing my best clothes here, 
 don't think it — I'm in an engagement, I'm stop- 
 ping the expenses!" 
 
 "Peggy!" groaned the other girl again. He 
 divined a kick under the table. "You're coming 
 down to see the dress rehearsal on the 5th, Mr. 
 1 awless?" she struck in. 
 
 "It would be a treat to me, but I can't; I've 
 somewhere else to go.'* 
 
 "It would be a 'treat' to himl" pealed Peggy. 
 "We shall be kept in the theatre half the night — 
 we shall be dog-tired — and he would find it a 
 'treat'! What it is to be young! Where have 
 you to go, Mr. Dramatist?" 
 
 "I have to go to a very dull public dinner on 
 the 5th," he said. "I shall think of you dog-
 
 414) THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 tired in the Garden Act when they serve the 
 chapon 7'dti/' 
 
 "Send us the chapon rotif* she said, *'it'd be 
 much more use." She snatched a sprig of pars- 
 ley from a dish and stuck it in her hair. "Mother 
 always tried to kill my passion for dress I" she 
 cried. 
 
 He proffered her mayonnaise, and she said she 
 wanted to play the piano. Though he feared that 
 even a landlady who was a terpsichorean gym- 
 nast might have objections to her rattling "Flor- 
 odora" at one in the morning, his spirits were high 
 until she forsook the music-stool and sank to 
 reminiscence on the hearthrug. Then she made 
 his heart ache; she told him some of her vicissi- 
 tudes — no engagement, no money, no food. His 
 eyes filled as he listened. What this girl had been 
 through ! 
 
 It was two o'clockc He saw his guests Home. 
 (Rain was falling.) "Good-night — good-bye." 
 He looked at Rumford Street for the last time — 
 how familiar it had become ! "Don't forget me," 
 he heard himself whisper, clasping Peggy's hand. 
 Her gaze assured him. She went in — the step 
 was desolate; he turned thoughtfully away. 
 
 And as he walked back, to the room where she 
 had been, he knew he was in love — with her, with 
 the Theatre, with the life he used to lead. In the
 
 THE CALL FROM THE PAST 415 
 
 wet, black streets of Manchester he saw the naked 
 truth, and he reahsed that his Hfe was a failure. 
 A man could change his envu'onment, but not 
 himself. He felt that he would be happier earn- 
 ing three pounds a week, like her, on the stage 
 than he would ever be as Robert Blackstone, K.C. 
 One mustn't say these things, but he felt it — felt 
 that he would rejoice to be a minor actor again, 
 and see 'Peggy in the morning, and see Peggy 
 every day. 
 
 No Flies on Flossie tottered for six nights, 
 died, and was buried. You may read those facts 
 elsewhere. These are facts concerning No Flies 
 on Flossie which you may read only here. And 
 in Garden Court, Temple, there was for a long 
 time a distinguished barrister debating a subtle 
 point. He questioned if, when he made a trip to 
 the past and grew enamoured of it, he fell in love 
 with a girl, or only with an atmosphere. Because 
 that he was in love, still in love, was indisputable ; 
 he looked back constantly and yearned. The sole 
 doubt was, with what was he in love? It was the 
 weak spot in the case, and with his usual keen- 
 ness he had put his finger on it — he discerned how 
 liable he was to be deceived, how naturally he 
 might be attributing to the girl the fascination 
 that belonged to the surroundings. If it was the 
 atmosphere that lent Peggy enchantment, he
 
 416 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 would be insane to choose a wife so different 
 from, say, the placid matron who blessed Ed- 
 ward. Per contra, if he loved Peggy herself, why 
 should he tramp the room like this, instead of 
 asking her to marry him? 
 
 He swore he did love the girl herself. 
 
 He trembled lest her halo was the limelight. 
 
 Then having come to a conclusion, Le found 
 her advertisement in The Stage, and wrote ask- 
 ing her to call on him "at Mr. Blackstone's cham- 
 bers." 
 
 She went promptly. The dignified clerk ush- 
 ered her into Robert's presence, and Robert had 
 never seen that room look so gay. 
 
 "How good of you to come!" he exclaimed 
 happily. 
 
 "How good of you to think of me, you mean!" 
 she said — "I've been out ever since No Flies fin- 
 ished; have you written another piece, and are 
 you going to offer me a good part in it? I say, 
 you do know swells !" 
 
 "Who, Blackstone?" 
 
 She nodded. "Do you think he'll come in while 
 I'm here? I was reading about him the other day 
 — Miss Peggy Wilson would be going strong, 
 meeting celebrities of the Bar. This is the Black- 
 stone, isn't it, the K.C.?"
 
 THE CALL FROM THE PAST 41T 
 
 "He's a very recent K.C.," murmured Robert; 
 "there's his new wig in that box." 
 
 "Oh, do let me look!" she said, darting radiant- 
 ly. "May I?" 
 
 "You may even try it on, if you like," said 
 Robert; "he wouldn't mind." 
 
 She had her hat-pins out in a second. "Oh, 
 isnt Peggy going strong!" she laughed. "How 
 does it suit me?" And then turning from the 
 strip of glass, "Why are you so grave all of a 
 sudden? Didn't you mean me to?" 
 
 "Yes, yes; I was thinking what a fool I had 
 been not to beg you to come sooner," sighed Rob- 
 ert. "Take it off, and let me talk to you." 
 
 "Serious?" 
 
 "Very serious — an engagement." 
 
 "You are a trump," she said; "I wanted one so 
 badly." 
 
 "Ah, but you mustn't accept this one unless 
 you like it, and I hope you won't mind its being 
 a short engagement. Peggy, I love you. I love 
 the ground you walk on, and the clothes you wear, 
 and everything you say and do. Will you be my 
 wife?" 
 
 "Oh!" she gasped. Her face was colourless. 
 
 "Can't you care for me?" 
 
 "I do care," she whispered, and — It seemed 
 incredible, yet they were round her ! and his heart
 
 418 THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN 
 
 was thumping like a boy's. "Oh, my sweet!" he 
 stammered, releasing her at last. Just like a boy 
 again — "Oh, my sweet!" 
 
 And her colour had come back, and she smiled 
 up at him, with the smile that no other woman had 
 ever equalled. "Let me put on my hat before 
 Blackstone comes in," she said joyously; "look 
 what you've done to my hair — it'd give us away!" 
 
 "Peggy," said Robert; "Fm Blackstone." 
 
 The smile faded; she stood gazing at him wide- 
 eyed. 
 
 "I called myself 'Lawless' when I wrote that 
 farce, and then I chucked writing and went in 
 for the Bar. I had forgotten all about the thing 
 for years when I got Pink's note, but I couldn't 
 resist going down to the Call; I went as a lark, 
 nobody knew me, I thought it wouldn't make any 
 difference. And then I met you, Peggy — and it 
 made all the difference in the world. Why don't 
 you laugh?" 
 
 "You are a great man," said the girl solemnly; 
 "you oughtn't to marry me." 
 
 "Oh, my dearest dear," he cried, "don't you 
 understand that I — the real 'I' — am the man you 
 saw there, and that only you do see the real 'me' ? 
 London has forgotten the author of that piece, 
 but he didn't die, darling — his heart's just the 
 same, though he looks so different. Robert
 
 THE CALL FROM THE PAST 419 
 
 Blackstone's the man who wears the wig and 
 go^vTi, and can make things right for your mother 
 and the youngsters, and who'll give you a title 
 by-and-by, my love; but your husband'll be the 
 bohemian who toasted the crumpets, and lodged 
 at mademoiselle Superba's, the terpsichorean 
 g}^mnast. You shan't have time to wish for any- 
 thing — I'd like to buy the Earth for you! — and 
 you must come to hear me speak, and I want you 
 to be proud of our position; but at home I shall 
 always be the 'boy' who fell in love with you, 
 Peggy, the 'Bob Lawless' who went to look for 
 his youth — and found it!" 
 
 Beyond the open window, the flowers of the 
 garden were bright in sunshine, and the fountain 
 tinkled dreamily. There was a nurse-maid with 
 a child among the flowers ; he knew with thanks- 
 giving that he was doing well to marry. 
 
 "Will you kiss me again, sweetheart?" 
 
 "Yes," she sM—^'Bobr 
 
 The End
 
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